The Only True Paradises
by la rose carnation
Summary: The tortuous evolution of Santana's feelings toward Brittany. See also "Pas de Deux," a companion piece from Brittany's point of view.
1. That summer feeling

[Disclaimer: I own nothing.]

You have known her as long as it mattered. Are you ten when you meet her? Eleven? You're the new girl, fresh off the moving truck from Cleveland. You were angry from the moment your father moved his practice, and you were plucked from your school and the friends you had fought for—literally fought for—to get stuck in this crappy little town featuring nothing and no one. In a school where they act like they've never seen a Latina before.

But Brittany is different. Brittany is sweet. Popular, because she's pretty and a good dancer already and a threat to nobody. She sits next to you in art and wants one day to borrow your burnt umber colored pencil for her horse's mane. And all of a sudden you're talking, then swapping desserts at lunch, and in a few weeks Brittany is scoring you invites to the popular girls' slumber parties. That's all you needed: an in. After that, you know how to work them. All you have to do is be a little mean most of the time, a little nice now and then, and you've got them wrapped around your finger.

But Brittany's different. You've never wanted to be mean to Brittany. You've never had to. She likes you when you're sweet. Sometimes you even let her hold your hand when you walk home together.

* * *

><p>The summer after eighth grade you spend nearly every day together. Brittany comes over in the early afternoon and you swim for hours, until your hands and feet are wrinkled and your hair sticky and your skin too hot. Sometimes you watch the ants together as they file along the crack between the pool tiles and the concrete. You like to splash them with pool water and watch them struggle and drown, but Britt begs you to leave them alone, so you do. Then Britt shows you how to let the water jet hit between your legs, how if you wait long enough something comes over you to make your body shake and make you forget the temperature of the water and the brightness of the sun and the march of those ants along the crack of the tile. You take turns. Sometimes you watch Britt close her eyes and bite her lip and you try to spot the moment she tumbles over the edge. Her body moves unconsciously under the surface of the water.<p>

Whenever she stays over for dinner, she sleeps over. It's hot; Britt sleeps in a tank top and underwear. Her breasts are a little bigger than yours; you like the way her belly sinks between her hipbones. You like to touch her knees—so small and pretty—and trace the light freckles on her shoulders and forearms with your fingers. You take turns lying in each other's laps and digging your fingers deep into each other's hair. Her hair is fine, slippery; when you catch the occasional knot you tease it apart easily with your fingertips. Her fingers are long and thin and give you a funny feeling in your belly when they stroke the skin behind your ears.

You sleep beneath one thin sheet, until Britt gets cold in the middle of the night and starts shivering. She never wakes up, as though she didn't know she felt cold; you pull another blanket over the two of you and drape yourself against her until she loosens. You don't understand how she gets cold: her body gets so hot when she sleeps that her skin seems to glow from it, the way it does when you lay out on the towels and dry yourselves in the sun like lizards.

You love her so much it makes your throat ache. You want to swallow her up; you want to shrink her down and keep her in a pocket so you're never apart. When you watch her bike roll away the next morning after breakfast you pine until she comes back over that day, or the next.

Good thing your parents love her too. Your mother constantly embarrasses you about it; she tells you she had crushes on her girlfriends at your age too. It's the hormones, she teases. She says she misses being that close. She tells you to enjoy it.

Your mother doesn't know what she's talking about. How could anything she ever had be like what you have with Britt? You think about it as you brush lemon juice into her hair as she lays back, supine and content as a cat, on a towel in the grass.

It's late in the summer before you start talking about high school. You're both nervous—you can see it in each other—but neither of you will admit it. You paint each other's nails and talk about boys from your old school.

I bet high school boys will be a lot hotter, you say. It's late at night and you're both lying tummy down on your bed, flipping through a Cosmo you slipped into your beach bag in the magazine aisle when you went grocery shopping with your mom.

Yeah, I guess, says Brittany. I still can't think about kissing a boy, though. What if he was like Brandon or Matt? They smell like sweat and stink breath all the time. And they're so short.

High school guys aren't munchkins like middle school guys. You flip through the magazine until you find a glossy ad of a guy with tousled hair and gleaming, oiled skin. They're more like this. They'll be taller than you.

What do you think it's like to kiss someone?

I dunno. You swallow. You have an idea, watching her bite her lip and stare at the magazine. And all of a sudden, for no reason, your heart starts pounding. But you say it anyway. Wanna try it now?

Britt looks at you as she considers it. Okay, she says. Then you lean into each other and, hesitantly, touch your lips together. A light current shoots from your mouth to the place between your legs.

Ooh, she says, pressing her forehead to yours before pulling back. I just got kind of a shiver. Did you feel something?

Yeah.

So you do it again a few times, just little feathery kisses, before you both start giggling and go back to talking about everything and nothing.

Sometimes after that, in the middle of the night, when you hold Britt to keep her warm, she turns her body toward you in your arms and kisses you again. Her mouth is slightly sour from sleep, but you don't mind. You kiss slower, drowsy and half in dream. Sometimes your hands wander over each other's hair and necks and waists. You try pressing your hips against her thigh once and it feels too strong; you get scared and pull back. You hope boys' kisses will feel as good as Britt's dream-kisses.


	2. Brave new world

Your first is Puck, freshman year, a little while after you turn fifteen. You've kissed a few boys now and as disappointing as it is to admit it, it's not even as good as dream-kissing with Brittany.

Well, except maybe Puck, who comes closest. He teaches you how to use your tongue. You get a little of that same feeling between your legs. You learn to touch yourself and you figure out it's the same thing you and Britt did in the pool that summer. Eventually you let Puck touch you there, but his rough fingers can't do the same things your own can do.

You still see Britt every day, but it's different at school. It's not like summer when you are the only two people in the world. Now you have to play your mean-nice-mean game again. But now there's another girl who does it just as well as you: Quinn Fabray, who made lieutenant cheer captain even though she's just a freshman. Quinn is ridiculously gorgeous, in that country festival queen way. Everyone would love her even if she didn't know how to twist people just right. But her tricks don't work with you. You know them too well. The two of you form a kind of bond over it, volleying your manipulative power plays like two world cup champs.

Now it's Britt who follows you up the food chain of the freshman class, trotting behind you like a puppy on a leash. Everyone knows she's under your protection: no one will hurt her because no one dares cross you.

You pulled her up; she stays up on her own merit. Boys like her, and if her simple sweetness keeps her from clawing to the top of the pyramid like you, she gets there by right, since she's hands-down the squad's best dancer. You and Quinn and Britt are top bitches of the freshman class. Maybe of the whole school. Just as it should be.

The night you lose your virginity to Puck, you and Brittany are at your first big-deal party, getting drunk together for the first time in that football player Mike Chang's basement on cheap beer Puck scored. No Quinn: she's a snotty little good Christian girl and doesn't come to parties like this. Her loss. You look around the room like a shark searching for prey. What high status man candy should you dangle for a while? Mike? Karofsky? Finn? The alcohol is dulling the clear, high polish of your self-control.

It's November now, and you and Britt haven't kissed since that summer, and it was only that first time you'd done it really awake. But when she takes your hand and, pulling you away from your calculations, drags you along with her to pee—I need a time out, San, she says—you end up kissing against the wall of the locked bathroom. No tongue; that's for kissing boys only. But god, even so, your heart seems to drop right between your legs, and you hold her slim waist and press your breasts against hers. The world is spinning; you know you're really drunk, and that must be why kissing her is making you so wet even though she's a girl and your best friend.

After you leave the bathroom, reeling, you stop trying to decide who to hunt: you just find Puck and kiss him right in front of everyone. He pulls your hips against his and you feel how hard he is and suddenly you're glad for a reason to be so wet.

Let's find a room, he whispers. He reeks of beer, and you know you must too, and you nod and let him lead you by the hand. You don't look back for Brittany.

You know enough to make Puck wear a condom—he's got one in his jeans pocket—and after you've shuffled off your clothes and kissed and he finally sinks into you for the first time, you feel a twinge of pain through the haze of the alcohol. But it feels okay—not as good as they say, but okay—once he starts moving. Mean Santana possesses you and you dig your fingernails into the skin of his back. He hisses, but then he grins, and bites your ear and your neck. It doesn't feel good. You're searching for the same sensation he seems to be getting. You hold onto his waist, but it doesn't feel as good as Britt's did a few minutes ago—it's hard and the skin is coarse. He's moving faster; the pit of you is feeling sore now, but he doesn't seem to notice. It's like something is possessing his body, like he's going somewhere. You think of Britt's face, of her moving hips under the water, as she held herself against the water jet.

Finally, with a grunt, he comes, pressing his hips so hard against yours that the tendons of your inner thighs stretch painfully.

That was good, he says, pulling away. Like, really good.

Okay, whatever. You want to hurt his feelings now. You flare with anger and frustration.

Hey, you okay? He raises an eyebrow.

Fine.

You wonder what Britt is up to downstairs. You want to go check on her. You feel a little hollow. You don't know what you expected, but it wasn't that. Pulling your panties back on, you try to ignore the ache, magnified by your drunkenness, still throbbing deep within you.


	3. The tree of good and evil

It gets easier after a while, sleeping with Puck. And you try a few other guys too. You keep coming back to Puck because it's easy, and because at least he tries. It's fun—you never come, but at least he can make you wet and even goes down on you from time to time.

You convince Brittany to sleep with Puck—for some reason, it makes you feel better that you both lost your virginity to the same guy. After that, Britt goes on her own streak of hookups. You tell each other religiously every time you sleep with a new guy, but she outstrips you so fast it starts to eat at you a little. Maybe you're jealous.

But in a way, you're worse. Britt collects bedpost notches the way other people collect flowers or stamps. Her cruelty is incidental and unintentional. You, though—you get to like fucking because it tears you away from whatever you're thinking about and replaces it with hunger and sweat, and more than that, because you get to be unabashedly cruel. Guys like it when you get on top and call them dirty names and scratch them while you're fucking. They think you're doing it to turn them on, but you know better. You like being brutal. Even more than the act of fucking them, you like fucking with them. They secretly love being kicked around. This is a discovery you've made on your own, and because you are fifteen and a girl and have little power, you love the way that feels.

One thing you and Brittany agree on: romance is stupid. Guys try with the roses and the gooey sentiment and the cards—well, you do let them cough up for dinner and bling; why say no to free?—but in the end, all they really want is to fuck you. Best to cut the bullshit and go straight to the punch line. Another thing: sex is a great way to shoot straight up to the top and stay there. Once they know you're not afraid to punch holes in their hearts with stiletto heels, boys—those masochists—trot after the two of you like woodland animals after Disney princesses.

Meanwhile, Britt still sleeps over, though not as often. You watch movies and play with each other's hair and laugh about boys. Sometimes you still kiss in the night. Sometimes you even get that summer feeling again, and you find yourself wanting to run your hands over her skin, under the waistband of her pajama pants and touch her the way boys touch you—the way you touch yourself.

Then one weekend, near the end of the school year, your parents leave town and the two of you break into the liquor cabinet. You drink vodka lemonades and watch Disney movies she brought over and eat ice cream with two spoons straight from the carton until you're in a contented, queasy stupor. You're giggling as you braid her hair, and when she lays down in your lap, seeing as her hair is all fixed, you stroke her neck instead. She stops giggling then, and purrs like a cat. The buzzing makes your thighs vibrate. You feel yourself getting wet as your heart pounds.

You're both drowsy and fall asleep with your legs entwined together, buried in blankets and stuffed with ice cream. When you close your eyes, the room seems to be floating like a little boat on a windy day at sea. You cling hard to Britt, your only safety, your anchor to the world.

In the middle of the night she turns to you, the way she does sometimes, and you kiss. You kiss differently now; you've both practiced on less perfect mouths, but you've also, despite yourselves, grown used to each other. And then it happens—she slips her tongue into your mouth, and the tip of hers touches yours, and god you feel so alive you don't care that this is not the way friends should kiss, ever, not even really good friends—especially not really good friends—and especially not two girls. And you can't help your hips moving closer to hers, and you can't stop yourself from sighing in relief when she pushes up your shirt and strokes your breasts. Your hands mirror hers, and you are drunk in three ways at once: the reeling room, your hands on her skin, and her hands on yours. She is the only hot thing in the cold cold room; her sugarcoated tongue, deep in your mouth, seems to stroke between your legs instead.

You are fearless now. You've crossed the line. You might as well do it. You slide your hand down her tight belly and under her panties, past the soft cloud of hair, and feel the heat of her before you touch the top of the slit. She is whimpering before you part her with your fingers; she is as slick and wet as you know you must be, your pounding heart split between where she is sliding her fingertips over your nipples and the aching place between your own legs.

You find it with your fingers: the little bump you like to linger on when you touch yourself. She gasps into your mouth and bites your lower lip. She wiggles closer to you, drapes her arms around your neck, and presses your breasts and bellies together where you've hiked up your shirts. Your arm is pressed so hard between you that you can feel your own muscles moving as she traces the folds of your ear with her tongue. You swear you're going to die of wanting her.

Your eyes are shut hard, and you refuse to open them.

Then her arm squeezes between you and you feel her hand sliding into your pajama bottoms. She slips under your panties with another maneuver, and as they peel away you realize how wet you really are, and you're embarrassed for her to feel how much you want her to touch you. She slides one of her thighs between yours to prop them open—you feel hers open as you lace your legs together—and slides her fingers into the wetness with a deftness and fearlessness that shocks you. For a minute your breaths catch on one another, as though you are climbing together up a cliff face, and then you begin to sync, breaths alternating and speeding up together. You wonder if you're dreaming this. If it's just the vodka. If those are really her fingers making you feel better than you've ever felt, better than with any boy, better even than when you do it for yourself.

Then her fingers slip inside you—two at once—and you arch and shudder, and wonder why it never feels like this when boys do it. She presses her whole hand into you, palm rocking against your clit, fingers buried to the hilt. You follow her example and she cries out and covers your cheeks and nose and mouth with kisses. You wrap your other arm around her waist and pull in the small of her back and press your cheek to hers like you're slow dancing. Every twitch of her body electrifies yours. You add a finger to your first two and use your thigh to press your hand deeper; the gap between you closes until it's just a mess of limbs and wetness and thrusting. You feel her bite her lip and think of her on the edge of the pool, at the edge of climax. Then she's coming and moving helplessly against you, and as she does, she whispers, Santana, and the sound of your own name on her lips—so throaty and desperate and ecstatic—pushes you over the edge. You cling to her as hard as you can, the way you would if you were both falling off that sharp cliff face of your imagination, just to have her to hold on to.

As you lie damp and hot in your mussed pajamas, trying to fall asleep, your own name in her voice pounds in your head. Your limbs are still tangled in hers and you can't remember which belong to you. You're still too drugged with sex and vodka to be afraid. All you know is that Brittany just made you come—the first time anyone has, besides yourself—and that she said your name. Little by little, heaviness replaces the thudding of your heart and drags your mind into shadow.

The next morning, you wake up first. You would think it was all a dream, a trick of the alcohol, except for that lingering whisper of your name, rewinding and replaying over and over. Careful not to stir Brittany's body, you bring your hand to your lips and smell the clinging, musky scent of her on your fingers.

You've never watched her sleep so close and so still as you do this morning. Her eyelids are so thin: just veils of skin and fine veins. They twitch as the light from your window threatens to penetrate them. She's as unaware of this as she is of the way she shivers from cold in the night. Is she dreaming?

That summer feeling is suddenly all over you again, crawling through the deepest parts of you, and you want to darken and still her eyelids with your lips. The ache in you is so hard that you think your heart might collapse like a wet cardboard box.

Suddenly, she turns in your arms. Her eyes open hesitantly, heavily, like a newborn.

Morning, San. Her voice is stretched, soft, like her body against yours. You loosen your hold on her and pull away—have you always done that in the morning?—and fix your eyes on her shoulder. Heat rushes to your cheeks and neck and you're glad your blush never shows. You push away the summer feeling, hard, and swallow.

Morning, Britt Britt. Sleep okay?

Great, she purrs. Especially after… you know.

Your flush doubles back into your cheeks and throat and chest. It's the first time either of you has acknowledged your night kisses out loud. Suddenly, now that you can't deny it, they're all too real for you.

San? she prods, and tilts your face toward hers. Are you okay? Did I do something?

No, you say, a little too firmly. But your heart weakens upon seeing her bewilderment, and before her thoughts have time to coalesce from the fog, you fix it for her. I mean, you didn't do anything wrong at all.

It felt really good for me, she ventures.

Her artlessness pulls the summer feeling into your throat. You smile despite yourself.

Yeah, me too.

Way better than with boys. I mean, I think girls are better anyway.

Your blood reverses. You can't feel your heart.

What girls?

Did I not tell you? I made out with Jenna. Oh—and Bethany.

Two cheerleaders. You feel queasy at the thought; you don't know why.

Girls are way better kissers, she goes on. But—her voice lowers, secretive—no girls have ever touched me there, the way you did.

You melt again, quick and hot as lava, and you are suddenly acutely aware of just how damp and sticky you still are under your pajama pants.

It doesn't have to be a big deal, you say, your voice as careful and cool as your body is burning. I mean, it doesn't mean anything.

No one has to know, she agrees. I just… really liked the way you touched me.

You don't know whether you're in it too deep. You haven't ever really been in it. Hell, you're not even sure what it is. All you know is that when you look at Brittany and she tells you she likes the way you touch her in that sweet Brittany voice, all you want to do is touch her and kiss her for the rest of your life.

That scares the shit out of you.


	4. The rules

You call the shots. You want to keep it clean. Methodically, and without telling Brittany, you lay down some ground rules in your mind.

Rule one. Not too often. Once a month, tops.

Rule two. No talking during. You shush her when she tries.

Rule three. No talking about it. No calling it anything: not sex, not even fucking, and definitely not making love. You relent for "sweet lady kisses," which sounds so medieval—and so Brittany.

It's not a rule that you have to do it in the dark, but you always do.

This summer is nothing like last summer. There's cheer camp every day except Sundays. It's brutal. Britt still sleeps over sometimes, but you're both so drained that you just fall into your bed and tumble together into a sleep so deep you feel like you blinked out of existence. You wake up spooning her but can't remember when or how you got there.

Meanwhile, you can't figure out whether you and Quinn are really close or whether you really hate her. The two feelings aren't separated by much, when you think about it. Britt's finally learning cruelty, the way you might pick up a language from living in a country where they speak it. You can't decide whether you're proud or disappointed. At least you can gossip at your sleepovers—which now include Quinn.

So what's going on with you and Puck? asks Quinn, filing her nails as Brittany twists your hair around strips of rag. It took her forever to plead you into letting her, but you're enjoying the feeling of her fingers on your scalp as she sections off each future curl.

What do you mean, going on? I just sleep with him.

Quinn looks at you with that tight mouth that means she's judging you. Aren't you ashamed of just throwing around your body like that?

You shrug.

You must like him at least a little, she persists. The way you sleep with him all the time. You must have done something right to make him follow you around and curl around your ankles like a stray cat. She glances at Brittany, who huffs as she unrolls the curl she's working on and starts it again from the ends.

Whatever. I guess I like him a little. You don't know why you say it, but it's the right thing to say. Quinn smiles, a little smug.

You do? says Brittany. San, you never told me that. Fuck it all, Britt. You want to tell her to keep her mouth shut.

Quinn looks from you to Britt, from Britt to you. She must be wondering why you said it now when you don't talk about it with your best friend. But she lets it go.

Anyway, I think you guys should join the celibacy club I'm starting next year.

I don't believe in celibacy, you snort. It's for gay monks.

Why are you starting a club for a city in Florida? says Brittany, and you ignore the look Quinn tries to shoot you.

I think you mean Tallahassee, Britt, you correct her gently. Celibacy means promising not to have sex.

Why would you want to do that? You can tell by her voice that Britt is frowning.

Don't you want to save yourself for your husband? For Jesus? Quinn wheedles.

Wow, you want to do them both at once? You love to fuck with Quinn when it comes to that Jesus shit. That's kinky, Q. I didn't think you were that kinky.

Brittany giggles. Quinn rolls her eyes so hard you wonder if they're going to burst against the top of her skull.

When the new school year starts, you and Britt join up anyway, since all of the Cheerios follow Quinn, and you know they'll call you sluts if you don't. Anyway, the other cheerleaders are fucking boys too. Hell, two of them made out with Brittany.

Truth be told, it's kind of hot. You have to give Quinn credit: she knows how to tease boys, which can be as hot as torturing them in bed. A skill worth developing.

Since Quinn has been at your sleepovers, you and Brittany haven't had any sweet lady kisses. Under the watchful eye of Quinn, you're afraid to sleep in the same bed and risk your reckless dreams.


	5. Practicing scales

Quinn's dating that dopey giant Finn Hudson now. He's the quarterback, which is the kind of status candy Quinn will stoop to anything for. Still, she's way too smart for him and she must know it. Puck's not the sharpest tool in the shed either, but he's mean, and cruelty passes for wit in a pinch. You can understand how Quinn can stand being in the celibacy club when the other option is lying underneath that doughy, cow-eyed mouth-breather, closing her eyes and thinking of England. Not that she'd have to wait long.

No wonder she's eyeing Puck on the side.

You can't have that. You don't love him; he's a warm body to you. Still, he's status candy. Better than Finn. Finn's got a better title, but Puck's got an army. Quinn can have Finn, but you want the one thing she can't have—that she can't take from you.

Although you must admit that she's growing on you. With Britt, you always know who's boss: you. With Quinn, you're not so sure. It's like chess. You've always been good at those strategic mindfuck games: now you have a worthy opponent. Watching her work the halls, you can't help but admire her. Coach even calls you in together to her office. Like it or not, you're a unit now, you and Quinn. Like you and Britt—but different. Like two dictators of neighboring countries in an alliance that could snap at any minute.

But when Quinn wants to drag you along, in the name of friendship and girl solidarity and mutual hatred of that sad hobbit Rachel Berry, to audition for that stupid Glee Club—that's the fucking limit.

We should totally do it, says Brittany, to your complete shock, as you sit listening to music on her bed.

What are you talking about, Britt?

I'll come with you. We'll do it together. Might be fun. We sing all the time when we're alone.

You raise your eyebrow.

Besides, she adds, you know how we have fun talking about those guys. You saw the assembly. It's a total freak show.

Exactly. Why would I want to join a freak show? Joining Glee would destroy everything we've worked our asses off to build here.

San, what if she really is asking you as a friend? What would you do if I asked you?

But you're different, Britt.

Maybe. But she'll owe you big time if you go along with this.

You think about it. Brittany has a point.

It's like fate. Once you're in Glee, Coach Sylvester decides to use the three of you as her secret moles. All you have to do is wait for Finn to crack under the pressure, or succeed in bringing down the club. Then you will be the confirmed dictators of this school.

The trouble is that after a while, you're starting to like Glee. Turns out you're a good singer. It feels so good it's almost embarrassing, the way you're still embarrassed every time Brittany touches you and feels how much you've been wanting her. Feels almost better than acting like you don't give a shit.

In practice, you don't have to pretend you don't give a shit. Sometimes you let go and let yourself be, the way you do with Britt. You forget you're supposed to keep her at arm's length and let your affection show: touching her, holding hands, smiling, the way you would if so many pairs of eyes weren't studying you in the halls for chinks. Sometimes it feels like those dreams you have where you're naked with only a washcloth to cover you, and you move it from your breasts to your crotch to your ass and you can't decide what you need to hide most. Either the washcloth is getting smaller or you're getting bigger, because it feels like there's more and more to hide.

Not in Glee, where everyone's naked and weirdly happy about it. Even Quinn.

It's not long before Puck's in, and a couple of the other football guys. They seem to like it too. There's an unwritten rule that what happens in Glee stays in Glee. It feels good to take the Queen Bitch robe off for a while. It gets heavy.

Then things start happening too fast. Quinn gets knocked up. That dwarf Berry starts dating Puck. And then it turns out it was Puck who knocked up Quinn, and that the whole time, that fucker wanted her. Wanted her, when he had you anytime he wanted. Suddenly, Glee is a minefield too.

Not to mention that you're still spying for Coach Sylvester. You love being picked out as special, but the hypocrisy is starting to make you a little queasy.

Thank god for Britt. You almost cried for joy when you picked her out of Schue's hat for a ballad assignment. It's so easy to sing to her about everything you feel. It's just like talking. It's like she's the only one who hears you, the only one who cares. She talks to you in that soft, not-really-hesitant Brittany way, nudging you toward your better instincts: that maybe you should give Quinn a break for a while, that it must be shitty to be the captain of the Cheerios knowing you're going to get kicked off as soon as you start showing, to be president of the celibacy club looking like a whore in a convent.

You didn't really want Puck anyway. Not that that makes you back off completely, especially not when Quinn starts moving in. How would it look if you just let that go? Still—your heart isn't in it anymore.

Being with Britt is the easiest thing in the world. Easier than school. Easier than Glee. Easier than being with yourself, where you think about everything too much and doubt yourself too hard. Brittany never doubts you.

You're talking about your other man candy options one day on her bed, scrolling through your mental contact list, when Britt quiets you with a finger on your lips.

Sweet lady kisses, she says, less a question than an order.

It's only two or so on a Saturday; the sun's still out. You could pull all of her gauzy curtains shut and it still wouldn't douse the light.

My mom won't be home for hours, she pushes, as though that's what's holding you back. What can you say? The cover of darkness was never one of your official rules.

You're wet before her lips touch yours. What you do with Britt almost doesn't feel like sex. She knows all of you know, by touch; you know her too—it's like you're touching yourself. You close your eyes before reaching for the hem of her shirt.

Brittany takes your hands in hers and places them back on the duvet. Her mouth moves from your lips to your cheekbones. She pulls away and waits for you to open your eyes.

Britt-Britt? You search her eyes, which are regarding you with that hard clarity she gets in those moments when she absolutely knows what she wants.

San, I don't want to do it like we always do.

You're aching and frustrated. All you want is to grab her hand and slide it under your jeans. Instead, you nod and wait for her to go on.

I want to—she blushes—to try some new things.

Like what?

For answer, she smiles and touches your cheek. Can I just undress you?

You normally undress yourself, if you undress at all. But today you sit up and lift your arms. She is careful and slow, allowing her fingers to slide up your skin after the cloth. You shiver as you watch her eyes, traveling up the path of newly exposed skin. You realize she's never actually seen you entirely naked before. The thought makes you strangely nervous.

She has no problem with your bra—just snaps it fluidly, naturally, the way you do hers or your own. Everything is mirror image, and in rare form, Britt is learning quickly. She sheds her shirt and skirt between unfastening your bra and unzipping your jeans. Soon the two of you are in bra and panties and—after she slides off first your bra, then hers—just in panties. Britt's breasts, which you've felt but never seen, are very white, particularly against your own skin. She's got small pink nipples that are already sharp when they brush against yours.

It sure feels like sex now.

Britt leans you back on the bed and parts your legs with her knees. She settles between them with her hard belly pressed between your legs. You know your panties are soaked. You're sure she can feel it against her skin.

Then she leans down and takes one of your nipples into her mouth.

You gasp. She's never done this before. All you've ever kissed are mouths, faces, necks. You have kissed under her arms and in the crooks of her elbows, the way she likes so much, but you've stopped her every time she kisses below your collarbone. Now, her mouth on your breast makes you feel so naked. Her hair falls all over your chest, and as she sucks your nipple into a point and makes your hips push against her belly, you stroke her hair again and again behind her ears and over her shoulders. When she switches to the other, you feel the first get cold, still stiff, and her mouth on the other seems even warmer and wetter. You close your eyes and pretend it's dark in the room.

She pulls away and slides her whole body up, fitting it over yours. Did that feel good? she asks.

Yeah, you say. Your eyes are still shut.

I like it when boys do that to me, she says, and you push down the twinge of jealousy that rises in your throat. Doing it to you is better. I like how you move.

You're embarrassed by your obvious and unconscious display of pleasure, and you kiss her to stop her from talking about it. She tastes like your skin.

Just let me try one more thing, she coaxes, her finger playing under a hip string of your panties. You nod.

Peeling her body from yours, she rolls your underwear from your hips and off your feet. Rather than placing herself back on top of you, though, she pushes your knees higher and settles down to look at the place between your legs. Whenever boys try to look at you there, or call it something gross, like pussy, you pull them up or roll them onto their backs. Sometimes you hit them, to teach them a lesson. But you let Brittany look at you, wet and sticky and vulnerable and humiliated.

Going to stay there all day? you demand, after a minute. Your voice sounds too hard, not casual enough, but Britt gets the picture.

Sorry, San, she says, and you expect her to move back up so you can touch each other. But she doesn't. She dips her head down and before you can stop her, she's licking the stickiness from you the way she licks dripped ice cream from her hands: un-self-consciously and firm. You cry out before you can stop yourself when she grazes your clit. She hesitates, then returns to the spot, worrying it with her tongue and lips. You refuse to touch her as she goes down on you, the way you do when Puck or some other guy does: grabbing their hair as though you're in charge. You're not in charge here. You're melting into the bed; you're gathering again and rising like steam into her warm wet mouth. And when you come you're everywhere and nowhere, and it lasts forever and it doesn't last long enough. You cry out her name.

Once you settle back, sweaty, and let the rest of the air out of your lungs, she finishes with a few clammy kisses and lays on top of you, head resting on your chest. You stroke her hair absently.

You came, right?

Really, Britt?

I knew you came, she admits. You said my name. She seems almost smug—as smug as Britt can be, which is closer to delight. You still can't believe you said her name. It's the first time you've said anyone's name in bed. And you're getting dangerously close to breaking your rule against talking about this. Your hand in her hair stills.

Should I have said someone else's?

It sounds mean, though you didn't intend it to. Britt swallows, looks away, and looks back at you.

I really like you, Santana. Not like boys. Like…

As she trails off, waiting for you to help her finish her sentence the way you often do, your heart freezes. Not this. Not now. Keep it simple.

Like best friends, you push.

Well… okay.

She looks troubled, so you kiss her. You roll her onto her back so you're in control again. She moans as your tongue plunges into her mouth, which tastes like you.

Touch me, she whispers, pulling away. I need you.

This you can do. On top of everything else, you can still handle this. You kiss Britt's cheek, fix your eyes on her shoulder, and begin to touch her, softly, perfectly, the way only you know how.


	6. And everyone and I stopped breathing

I'm really sorry, San. Britt's voice is small and pathetic, and you almost feel sorry for her. I didn't mean to say it. It just came out.

Whatever. I'm just trying to figure out what we're going to do about it.

No one said anything. We can pretend it didn't happen, like it's no big deal.

It could work, you guess, after today's fresh win at Sectionals—so fresh that you both still have your competition dresses on. The adrenaline is still coursing through you.

You think back to yesterday, when everything unraveled so quickly. Puck. Finn. Quinn. Rachel. And the party line call that had come just before the big showdown, the one in which Brittany had let slip to everyone that the two of you were sleeping together. Her revelation could get lost in the confusion. But it might not. The long pause of the whole party line following her slip-up gives you your doubts.

Thanks to that, you're breaking one of your rules: talking about it.

Well, it isn't a big deal, right? I mean, I sleep with guys. You sleep with guys. You've made out with other girls. This isn't any different from any of that.

It's not? The reproach in her voice is soft, but you hear it.

We're not lesbians. You spit the word out like a piece of bad fruit. We're not gay like Kurt. We're popular, remember?

Sure, but—

You stop her mouth with a kiss. Hard. Brutal. You're angry at her for making you think like this. For making you break your rules. For so carelessly airing your deepest secret as though it were nothing.

Nothing's changed, you whisper. To her? To yourself? Nothing has to change.

You push her back against the bed and bite the places you normally kiss. Almost as hard as if she were a boy instead. She whimpers and shrinks from the way you bite her armpits and wrists, which you pin back on the pillow. You want to settle this now. Even though you just did it two weeks ago and are breaking another rule by doing it again so soon.

Don't be angry, San, she whispers.

I'm not angry, you lie.

You stare at her hands where you've pinned them down and follow the line of her arm. You wriggle your hand beneath her panties—your other hand still pinning her arms behind her head—and suck her earring between your teeth before breaking your last rule: you whisper, eyes closed, into her soapy-smelling hair.

Beg me to fuck you.

Please, I need you, San.

Beg me to fuck you. In those words.

She hesitates. You hear her biting her lip—not the way she does when she's about to come, but the way she does when she's afraid of something.

It's just a game, Britt.

At last, she relents, letting her body conquer her doubts.

Please, Santana, she whispers. Fuck me.

When boys obey, hearing those words make you feel powerful. When Britt obeys, you feel weak: an ache spreads through your chest and between your legs. Using your body to part her thighs, you worm two fingers inside her, force your hips against your hand, and fuck her like a boy.

Britt's eyes flutter closed. She relaxes into the rhythm. Your hand is drenched and hot, and your wrist is getting sore from the angle. The anger is melting into regret. Britt isn't one of those boys. You want to stop, but you can't weaken, not now. Brittany can—she stills your hand for a moment with her own.

Can I take off my underwear? she pleads. And yours?

You shake your head and do it yourself; she compliantly lifts her hips and keeps her wrists behind her head as you peel off her panties and toss them to the side. After shedding your own, you settle back between her legs with your dresses hiked up to your waist, plunge back into her with three fingers, and lock your hips to hers. It's better without cloth in the way. Your own hand provides friction and you feel almost as if you were really a boy; you wonder if it feels like this for the boys who have slept with Brittany. You steal glances at Britt's face while her eyes are closed: her expressions ripple one after another, changing too quickly between pleasure and pain, and you fight the urge to ask if she's all right. She'd stop you if she wasn't, right?

She shivers; she's getting close. You let her arms chain your body tightly to hers, and force your fingers against the place inside that makes her shake harder.

Yes, San, yes, yes, she whispers, until she bites her lip so hard you're afraid it might bleed, and just before she comes she digs her fingers in your hair as if to make sure you haven't left her. You close your eyes, just in case she opens hers, and force your mind from sentiment to sensation, to the border between her body and your body, thin but immutable.


	7. The fox and the lion

(A note to my readers and subscribers: I'm quite surprised and flattered by your response to this story - thanks for your enthusiasm, favorites, and especially the kind reviews! I'll do my best not to disappoint.)

* * *

><p>When you get back to school, one of the junior Cheerios confronts the two of you in the locker room.<p>

So, are you two an item or something? she asks. She sounds incredulous, but that could just be because it's death to question your authority directly, and she knows it. I mean, I heard from, um, someone—at least she's smart enough to omit the name—that you're sleeping together.

Your belly twists. You feel Brittany looking at you, but you don't dare look back. You have the next two seconds to decide whether to lunge at her, nails protracted, or play it cool and deny it.

Then, at once, you know just what to say.

No. We're not an item. Your voice drips with sweetness. The girl shivers, knowing retribution can't be far behind. But we did fuck.

Britt gasps. The other Cheerios gasp. Ponytails swish as all eyes pivot to you. They're scandalized, awed, fascinated. Perfect. Why didn't you think of this before?

Don't tell me you never wanted to get your girl sex on. Britts and I had the balls to try it. You turn to the girl who confronted you, whose skirt dangles limply in her hand. Oh, worried I'll come after you? Don't flatter yourself, Stubbles. You're not nearly hot enough.

You hold your pinkie finger out to Brittany, who, taking your hint, links it in hers and grins. The room suddenly shifts to averted glances and noisily slamming locker doors.

The trick works. Word gets to Coach Sylvester, who, true to form, uses it to her own advantage. You're in line to assume the throne of the exiled Quinn, and Britt will take yours as lieutenant captain. But you know Sue won't let you have it for nothing. She names her price: you two must seduce Finn Hudson away from the hobbit.

Easy.

Linking pinkies with Britt in the hallways feels remarkably natural. You wish you'd done it a long time ago. No one is looking at Quinn anymore, at the way she and Puck seem to be dating now. All eyes are on you two. Boys want you. Girls want you. And since everyone knows you're not really together, everyone's hoping for a shot. Sometimes you feel turned on, feeling their attention and Britt's finger linked to yours.

Finn caves so easy it's not even fun. He takes you to Breadstix and has no idea that you and Britt are playing footsie under the table.

Brittany loves going public. But you have to keep her in check. Sometimes she tries to go too far: nuzzling your neck in public, kissing your cheek. You explain the difference between what you're doing and what she's doing. She nods as if she understands, although you know she doesn't, not really.

Once Berry starts dating that Jesse kid, it makes things a lot easier. You drop the Finn thing like last month's Cosmo. You tell Britt it's still okay to cuddle in Glee. By now you'll admit that you'd miss it too much if you stopped.

Later, you seduce Finn by yourself—another power play, on Britt's advice—and it occurs to you that you haven't had sex with anyone but Brittany in a couple of months. Finn's terrible—no surprise there. He's just so tall and unwieldy and goofy. A virgin. Comes in less than two minutes. As you ride him, working to warp speed, staring at the red digits of the clock beside the motel bed and longing for it to be over already, you tell yourself that you'll start having sex with guys again as soon as you find better ones.

Meanwhile, the Finn thing shuts up those whispers in remote corners of the hallways that you're a—well, they've stopped saying it now. You chase Mercedes away from Puck just for good measure.

Then again, since you and Brittany went public with your friends-with-benefits status, the benefits have more or less dried up. Keeping it up now feels like pushing your luck.

* * *

><p>After winning Cheerleading Nationals, you and Britt have hallway capital to spare. Enough even for Glee.<p>

To celebrate, Britt comes to spend the night: you pop in a marathon of high school movies—Clueless, Fast Times, Breakfast Club, Mean Girls—and make out through most of them. You feed each other popcorn—playfully, but it turns you on more than you care to admit to feel her tongue prying each kernel from your fingertips—and fall asleep at two or three. You even let her be the big spoon.


	8. Sea change

Summer comes hot and fast. Cheerios camp swallows your first two months. Quinn's popped out the kid and—you invite her to a sleepover after camp ends just to scope out—is already tightening up again, only with bigger tits from the baby.

So what's the deal with you and Brittany, anyway? she asks as you nurse your third matching set of vodka sodas. She's started drinking again now that the baby's out of the picture. Turns out you don't like drunk Quinn.

We're best friends, you say, a little too firmly. We've hooked up. What else do you need to know?

Nothing. Quinn's tone is mild, but you can almost hear the gears rolling in her mind. You know it's best to say nothing. The booze pushes you.

It's not that big a deal, you insist.

I know. I believe you. She sips from her glass and smiles like a sphinx.

There's a pit lodged in your stomach. It rolls around in the following weeks like grit in an oyster. You know Quinn's going to make a power play. Still, you know what you can't do: you can't stop being affectionate with Britt at Glee. That would make it seem like there's something more going on, something that you have to hide.

There isn't, of course. That's only Quinn's fertile imagination. Ambitious little bitch.

Since Cheerios camp is over and you have time to convalesce, you beg your father for a boob job. If Quinn's going up a cup size, so are you. Your parents cave more easily than you'd estimated. Well—your dad never puts up a fight for anything. He gives you things that cost a lot to pretend he cares more. Your mom hates it, but you give her an ultimatum: it's either that or you'll get a neck tattoo, courtesy of a friend of Puck's. That's enough for her.

I don't know who you're becoming, Santana, she says.

Britt's the one who drives you to and from your appointment. You're too groggy with anesthesia to pull yourself up the stairs of your house, so she literally carries you. You had no idea she was so strong.

For the next six days, she's your constant nurse. Your mother, who approves of Brittany as a good influence—she hates Puck and distrusts Quinn—is more than happy to allow her full access to the kitchen to prepare you juice and snacks to wash down your heavy pain pills. Britt props your head in her lap and strokes your hair while you watch stupid movies and whole seasons of TV shows. She changes your bandages and swabs the incision points with antibacterial cream, kissing your forehead when you wince. You surrender entirely to her. Under the drugs, your brain swims and bobs in a dark sea; thoughts come and go like bubbles of salty foam. She soothes you and never laughs at you when you say silly things.

When the new school year starts, she'll tell everyone she got lost in the sewers instead.

You love her even more for that.

* * *

><p>Near the end of the summer, right before school starts, you want a test drive for the new tits. So you sleep with Puck a few times.<p>

He's gotten better at sex. So have you. When he makes you come for the first time, you're so shocked you think for a moment that you might feel something for him.

You don't, of course. You don't have feelings for anyone.

In an attempt to spice things up, he makes you watch porn on his computer. You've never watched it before. You hate it. You hate the women's vacant stares, like they don't want to be there, like they're only there to be penetrated and humiliated. Almost less than human. You tell Puck that it's boring, to turn it off.

In a minute. Just watch one more.

He queues up a lesbian movie.

What the fuck is this? you ask, as one of the women with fake red fingernails dips her tongue to the dry clit of the other. She flicks the tip like she's flipping a switch on and off, over and over. It's so stupid-looking that you get angry. You've gone down on Britt and it's nothing like that at all. It's wet and sticky and you have to bury your mouth in to make it feel good. And Brittany's moans and whispers are real, not like the theatrical fake moaning the actress is doing. Britt's sound secret. They're just for you.

You feel yourself getting wet at the memory.

You're turned on, aren't you, babe? Puck looks so smug you want to slap him. Come on, I see it in your face. I hear you like that more than dick these days.

You flush with anger and shame. So that rumor is still alive. You'll have to quash it.

Keep watching, he urges. And you do watch, trying to absorb yourself in the fakeness of the women's moans, to reabsorb your arousal the way a cat retracts its claws. The last thing you want is to give him the satisfaction of thinking this disgusting ploy is working.

Just then, one of the women licks her fingers, smears it over herself and her partner, and fits the junction of her legs to the other woman's, locking them together, the way you can squeeze the space out from between your palms. The brunette on top starts moving, rocking her hips, and the other undulates beneath her. They close their eyes. You ignore their fake moans and watch their hips, sliding against each other, pressing, and despite yourself, you get wet again.

Like that, baby? asks Puck. Like to watch them scissoring?

You say nothing, but let his hand slide up your skirt.

A couple of days later, with Britt, you bring it up while you're making out. Britt's not sure, but she's up for trying it.

The fitting together isn't as easy as it seems. As you try to angle yourselves just right, your knee hits her solar plexus. Hers hits your chin. But you finally figure it out and lock yourselves together, and the backs of your eyes flash with fractal light.

To make it work, you hold her hand to steady yourself on top of her. It's awkward at first. You keep detaching. Britt starts giggling, and you join her. But then you get it right and start rocking together. The giggling stops. Britt's mouth opens and her eyes close. You take charge and grip her hand as you move.

When you come, you forget everything in the world but her body and your body. Until you come down from your climax and sink against her thigh, and find your hand still firmly clasped in hers. She smiles, and without thinking, you catch her eye and grin back.


	9. Dangerous liaisons

School begins again—too soon. Thanks to the boob job, that bitch Sylvester puts you on the bottom of the pyramid. And Quinn back on top. That's it. No more frenemies. This is war.

Hard to believe that Glee is the best thing in your life at the moment. Well—Glee, and Brittany. She's a constant. No trouble. No drama. No pain.

At least, you thought she was.

And then, while you're kissing, she has to ruin it by asking you to sing a lesbian song with her for a duet assignment. You're already in a terrible mood from being bruised by the knobby knees of that anorexic freshman Cheerio during practice.

I'm not making out with you because I'm in love with you and want to sing about making lady babies, you sneer, rolling off her. You mutter some stupid excuse about Puck that neither of you believes. You haven't really slept with Puck since the end of the summer. You've hardly slept with anyone else. You force yourself not to look back at Brittany on her bed, at her face that you know from the tone of her voice will look heartbroken. But she has to remember: what you have can't be like that. You thought she understood.

So you sing a duet with Mercedes. As a political maneuver it's pathetic, but at least it's safe.

Brittany isn't answering your texts. She won't even look at you in Glee. Then you see her wheeling Artie around the hallways, and signing to you that there will be no more sweet lady kisses.

Maybe you went too far. You'd never been so mean to Britt before, not even that time you bit her and pinned her down and made her beg for it.

But the truth is, ever since the new school year started, you've thrown your rules out the window. You want her all the time, and you have her twice or three times a week. You're sick of being kicked to the bottom of the pyramid every time you've just pulled yourself to the pinnacle. Britt is the only thing that can always make you feel good.

You tell Artie that she's just using him. Serves him right, the runt, thinking someone like him could ever have someone like Brittany for himself. It works. The thing falls apart, easy as stale cake.

No one's taking Britt away from you.

* * *

><p>She comes back, slowly. You won't apologize—that's not what you do—but you do drive to her house one Saturday morning and surprise her with a trip to the zoo. You've packed a picnic with cheese and jelly sandwiches: her favorite kind. Sweet lady kisses recommence shortly thereafter.<p>

But when Puck and Artie ask you out on a double date in front of all the girls in Glee Club, you can't really say no. You can't be seen turning down boys. Especially for free food at the Stix. Naturally, you fake interest in Puck's stupid stories through dinner, like you always do. Britt's faking along too—at least, it seems like she is—and you share a deep grin.

Then, when you're alone together later in your house, painting your nails—you made some excuse to Puck when he wanted to take you both home about being on your periods; you have truthfully been synced up for years—she looks at you with a childish smile.

I think I actually like Artie, she says. Your blood turns cold. Your ears ring.

Hey, San? You're dripping nail polish. You look down. There's a fresh blood-colored drop on your carpet. You replace the brush in the bottle and stare at it. Rubbing will only make it worse. You're still reeling a little from Brittany's announcement—and still wondering why you're reeling.

Santana? Are you okay?

Yeah. Was just thinking I should re-carpet this room.

Okay, says Britt, choosing to take your flippant response at face value. Anyway, I think I might date him. What do you think?

I think you can do so much better.

Like who? Britt raises her eyebrow.

You don't answer. You busy yourself with painting a nail.

She starts dating him after all, and seeing them together makes your blood boil. You know it's only because he takes so much of her time, time she usually spends with you. But you miss her. You won't admit it, the way it hurts when she starts sitting by him in Glee, starts sharing the little things you used to share, the things you used to link pinkies over.

To cure the ennui, you start sleeping with Puck again. That gets boring fast. Sex with Puck is only good in two positions. It's like watching someone else's two desert island movies over and over. You miss the way Britt kisses, the way she touches you, the way you can do it a million ways and it still feels brand new.

But that's over for now.

So you go after Finn again. He was awful in bed, but maybe he's trainable. Well—to be honest, you don't even want him; you're just sick of seeing him and the dwarf together in Glee Club without Britt to distract you. Every time you hear them kiss, those soft little smacking noises make you want to punch them both in the face. You tell Berry you fucked him. It sends her for a tailspin, and the satisfaction their messy breakup gives you feels better than a good orgasm.

You start touching yourself more often than you ever have before. When your mind wanders to Britt, you force it back to Puck, or Taylor Lautner or Zac Efron, or even that new kid, Sam. Still, it always takes thinking of Britt's hand in place of your own to nudge you over the edge. You emerge from the fog sweaty and guilty.

* * *

><p>Quitting the Cheerios is going to cost you serious juice, but you're sick of being so unhappy, and something's got to give. Your grades are dropping and your parents are starting to ask questions.<p>

Still, it's Valentine's Day that kills you. Being blindsided by Rachel Berry and breaking down in front of everyone. Watching Britt sit in Stubbles's lap after he serenades her. Trying to cut off that new chick, Lady Babar the wrestler, in her attempt to move in on Puck, and failing. Failing to nail Puck. There's a new low.

You see a chink in Quinn's armor—cheating with Finn—and you go for it. You kiss some boy with mono just for the chance to infect the two of them, just to be a bitch. Not only to reveal their sneaking around to the whole club, but because you like seeing them sweat and suffer.

You're turning into a monster. You're not even sorry.

What's going on with Britt, you don't know. It's not like you're fighting. She still comes over, though less often. She's warm and kind and sweet as always. You guess it's because, despite all of the sex, she's never been in a real relationship before. It must be normal for a girl to get jealous of her best friend's first boyfriend.

You shred the last clinging bits of Sam's relationship with Quinn and scoop him up. He's boring in bed and has the most absurdly gargantuan mouth you've ever seen on anything anthropomorphic that wasn't a puppet. But if you can't have Puck, Sam's the next best thing. No need to have anyone thinking you can't have what you want.

* * *

><p>Now that you both have boyfriends, you convince Britt it's okay to start back up with sweet lady kisses.<p>

Isn't that cheating? Her brow furrows.

Nope. Plumbing's different. That means it doesn't count.

She nods, not quite sure whether to believe you, but obviously wanting to.

Haven't we always agreed we're just best friends? That nothing else had to change?

I guess so.

You'd forgotten how good it feels to kiss her. The way she has learned your kiss. It's like singing an old song: you both fall naturally back into the well-worn groove, the notes, the rhythm.

You shove her down onto your bed and top her. As you slide inside her and begin to rock against her hips, she smiles into your mouth, and you know it's just what she's craving after Artie, where every time is the same old thing.

You know the feeling.

* * *

><p>You thought going back to sweet lady kisses would make you feel better, but it's making it worse. Sam complains that you never open your eyes during sex. You counter that you never come either. He shuts up.<p>

Meanwhile, seeing Britt and Artie is getting harder. You drape yourself shamelessly over Sam and she never even seems to see it. It's getting harder and harder to convince yourself that it's about the boys—and harder and harder to be best friends. At least she's stopped talking about Artie; she can tell how much you hate it.

You get way too drunk at Rachel's party and do body shots off Brittany. You can smell her—she's wet too—and it takes effort to remember that you're in front of others. In front of your boyfriends.

Later, you watch Britt and Professor X all over each other and try your best to distract yourself with Sam. You bury yourself in his warmth and boy smell.

Getting that drunk feels good. But the hangover is brutal. You can't stop thinking about them. About her.

You're starting to think there's something seriously wrong.


	10. Landslide

Writer's note: I try not to use too much canon verbatim, but "Sexy," for obvious reasons, must be an exception. Thus: major spoilers for 2x15 in this and the next chapter.

* * *

><p>It all starts to fall apart when Britt wants to talk about feelings.<p>

You've touched and kissed and fucked all night in your bed, and you're doing her hair, the way you like to after Britt sleeps over. As her hair slips through your fingers, you can pretend for a minute that it's still the old days, when you didn't have to share her with anyone.

When Artie and I are together, we talk about stuff like feelings.

Why? God, did she have to bring him into this?

Because with feelings it's better.

You focus on your makeup to keep from reeling from the punch the words deliver to your chest. So it's not as good with you.

Are you kidding? It's better when it doesn't involve feelings. You know you sound mean. For once, you feel mean, even toward Brittany. I think it's better when it doesn't involve eye contact.

I don't know, I guess I just don't know how I feel about… us.

Look. You straighten up your bed, still mussed from sex, and try to sort your thoughts. You can't believe you're having this conversation, and you kind of want it to go away. Let's be clear. I'm not interested in any labels. Unless it's on something I shoplift.

I don't know, Santana, I think we should talk to somebody. Like, an adult. This relationship is really confusing for me.

Your heart is beating too hard. If only everything could just slow down so you could think.

Breakfast is confusing for you, you shoot back, buying time.

She gives a sweet Britt response, but you can't just smile and brush off the anxiety like you usually do. It's gathered into a knot at the base of your belly.

* * *

><p>You agree to talk to Miss Holiday, who sits you down in a dark classroom.<p>

I want to ask both of you if either one of you thinks you might be a lesbian, she begins. Your stomach jolts at the word—from fear or from recognition, you're not sure anymore. You look at Britt, who's staring at her hands.

I don't know, she mutters.

Yeah, you manage. I mean, who knows? I'm attracted to girls; I'm attracted to guys. I made out with a mannequin. Now you're just laying it on thick. I even had a sex dream about a shrub that was just in the shape of a person.

Well, we've all been there, Miss Holiday muses. Her eyes glaze over as she reminisces about her all-women's college. Anyway, it's not about who you are attracted to, ultimately. It's about who you fall in love with.

When she says it, you feel that recognition again, that dread, like something's crumbling inside you. Something you're not sure you're strong enough to hold together anymore. That you're not even sure you want to hold together. You watch Brittany as she responds.

Well, I don't know how I feel because Santana refuses to talk about it, she says, almost too quickly. She tries to meet your eyes and you just can't. A lump starts welling in your throat.

Miss Holiday suggests that you sing something in Glee Club, and you press back the lump long enough to think of something about falling, crumbling. Then it comes to you. You thought of Britt when it last came on your iPod, though at the moment you couldn't have said why.

I have the perfect song, you tell them.

When you sit on stools in front of Glee Club the next day, a panic seizes you as Miss Holiday begins to pick the first riffs. You can't believe you're singing this in front of everyone. In front of your boyfriends. In front of Quinn. In front of the dwarf. Puck. That new bitch. But you don't look at Artie or Sam or anyone—except Brittany.

As you look into her eyes and sing to her, you forget them all. You only see her eyes, kind and sweet and full of love for you, just what you were afraid of seeing when you were fucking because you knew exactly what it would feel like. Like your heart is a bag of sand and someone pierced a hole in it, like all of you is falling out and there's nothing you can do to stop it. You try as long as possible to keep back your tears—but it's like asking yourself not to get wet when Brittany kisses you. You can lie to yourself all you want, but your body refuses to lie along with you.

Is that really how you feel? she asks, with infinite tenderness, once the song is over.

Mm hm, you answer, unable to find even _yes _in your throat.

When you embrace, your body relaxes into hers as if no one else was in the room, clapping for you.

Then the dwarf ruins it. Congratulates you on exploring the world of Sapphic charm. You snap back at her as if you're angry, but you know that snapping sound is just one more crack, and the crumbling thing inside can't stay together much longer.

* * *

><p>That night, you lie back on your bed alone and think. You think about Brittany. About the summer feeling. About the way you feel when her fingers are inside you. When you touch her. About the way your chest tightens when you catch her eye and the way you look away so it won't happen again. You think of all the times you've told her—told yourself—those stupid things you knew deep down were lies. That this didn't mean anything. That you felt something for Puck, that you'd ever felt anything for Puck. Without waiting for that last crack, you let the lies go, let them fall and shatter.<p>

You're in love with Brittany.


	11. After the deluge

Though you thought it would shatter you completely, getting rid of that block inside you just makes you feel like you've taken off a big lead coat you never knew you were wearing. You're drunk with your new lightness of being. Not to say you aren't scared. God, you're scared out of your mind. Especially of losing what scraps of status you're still hanging onto as deposed McKinley royalty. But you know now, and you're not going to let it poison you anymore. Those days are over.

When it comes time to tell Britt—the next day; you can't hold it in any longer—you feel the kind of butterflies you've only heard and read about. You can't even roll your eyes at your own cheesiness: that's how bad you've got it. It must glow from you, from behind that gap where the wall was. It lights up your steps to Brittany's locker, where you feel as nervous as if you were talking to her for the very first time.

I wanted to thank you for performing that song with me in Glee Club, you say. You look right into her eyes, all kindness and simplicity and love, and begin to relax, to talk to the Britt you know as well as yourself. Because it's made me do a lot of thinking. You breathe again; Brittany waits.

What I've realized, you begin, is why I'm such a bitch all the time. I'm a bitch because I'm angry. I'm angry because I have all of these feelings—you look around to make sure no one is lingering or listening—feelings for you, that I'm afraid of dealing with, because I'm afraid of dealing with the consequences.

She gives you a soft, blank look.

Brittany, I can't go to an Indigo Girls concert, you hint. I just… can't.

I understand that.

Do you… understand what I'm trying to say here?

Britt shakes her head. No, not really.

Tears are welling up in your throat. Shit. You can't break down in the hallway. But you're going to have to say it.

I want to be with you. But I'm afraid of the talks, and the looks. I mean, you know what happened to Kurt at this school. You think of all of the times you yourself made snide remarks, trying to convince yourself that you were different.

Britt smiles, and your chest aches. The tears are stinging your eyes now.

But honey, she says, if anyone were to ever make fun of you, you would either kick their ass or slash them with your vicious, vicious words.

Yeah, I know, but—the tears finally break your voice—I'm so afraid of what everyone will say behind my back. Still, I have to accept—can you say it? Yes, you have to, now—that I love you. I love you, and I don't want to be with Sam, or Finn, or any of those other guys. I just want you.

Britt is silent. Still listening. You thought she would take over by now, tell you she loves you. But she seems to be waiting for something.

Please say you love me back, you whisper. Please.

Of course I love you. I do. Her voice is too bright, too reassuring. And I would totally be with you if it weren't for Artie.

You can hear your heart shatter.

Artie? you repeat, incredulous—that placeholder on wheels, the one she used to make you jealous?

I love him too, she explains. You can't believe you're hearing this. I don't want to hurt him. That's not right. I can't break up with him.

Yes you can, you insist. He's just a stupid boy.

But it wouldn't be right. Santana, you have to know, if Artie and I were to ever break up, and I'm lucky enough that you're still single—she tries to take your hand, but her touch feels like hot knives on your skin; you shake her away—I'm so yours. And proudly so. She's smiling. Her sweet eyes are clean of tears, while yours burn ravines down your cheeks.

Wow. Who ever thought that being fluid meant you could be so stuck?

I'm sorry. Britt tries to hug you, but you can't—you can't smell her hair and her skin, can't feel her body against yours, knowing it belongs to Artie. She rejected you. You can't believe she rejected you. You push her away and retreat before you can humiliate yourself any further.

Your whole body aches. Your eyes, your skin, your chest, your belly. The light that seemed to illuminate a path to Brittany's locker is scorching you now, and you can't hide from it, no matter how fast you run.

* * *

><p>What do you do now? You never knew there was pain like this. The pain from the surgery, the bruises and scrapes from Cheerios, the hair-pulling gut-punching fights with other girls in the halls, the deep-inside pain of Puck pushing into you the first time: if you took the pain of all of them and mashed them together and magnified it by ten it wouldn't come close to what you feel now. You feel like you've lost her. Like you never really knew her. You've never felt this far away from Brittany, not even that time you went to New York to visit your cousins for two weeks—the longest you've been apart since you were eleven years old.<p>

You try to imagine what it would be like if this were someone else. If you could call Britt up and she could come over with drive-through strawberry shakes, your favorite flavor, and stroke your hair as you cried until you fell asleep in her lap—the way she did last year when your cat died. Maybe if you were normal, if it were a boy who broke your heart. That's a story everyone knows.

The truth is, you can't imagine that. You can't imagine a heartache for anyone but Brittany, because you can't imagine loving anyone but Brittany. Loving Britt has become as much a part of you as the color of your eyes.

When you get home and manage to get the door open, you stumble upstairs and lock the door of your room behind you. You can't even get to your bed before you break down; you just crumple in front of the door and clutch your knees and weep so hard it wracks your whole body. You weep until you feel drained and parched, until your abs are sore and it feels like dry heaving.

Santana? Your mother knocks. That means it must be six already. The raps shiver down your back, which is still pressed against the door. Are you in there, mija? I brought home some takeout.

I'm not hungry, you call. Your voice is thick, still broken with weeping.

Your mother tries the doorknob. Locked.

Are you okay, mija?

The kindness in her voice makes you well up with tears all over again. You unlock the door and open it. You're sure your face must be puffy and the color of a brick. Her reaction confirms it.

Oh, baby, she says, and pulls you against her, cradling your head in the space between her neck and shoulder. You collapse into her and let a fresh round of tears overtake you. What's wrong? What's going on?

I can't tell you.

Yes you can. You can tell me anything. It's all right. Come downstairs and I'll make some coffee and we'll talk about this.

You nod helplessly into her shoulder and follow her downstairs. She leads you by the hand, like a child, and sits you in a chair in the kitchen. She places before you a napkin and fork, followed by a Styrofoam box that she pops open to reveal a steaming mix of pasta and cheese.

Baked spaghetti. I know that's your favorite. I know you said you're not hungry, but take a couple of bites; it might help. She busies herself with preparing the coffee, and the smell of cheese and ground coffee and marinara sauce so saturates the kitchen that you forget how bad you feel for just a moment.

Once the coffee is brewing, she pulls up a chair to face you. Now, tell me what's going on.

I don't know how to tell you, Mamita. I don't know if I can tell anyone.

It's about Brittany, right?

Your stomach flutters in surprise.

How did you—

Baby, give me a little credit. Every time you're crying, Brittany's here to comfort you. The fact that she isn't here right now tells me that it's probably about her. What's happening with you two? Are you fighting?

Well—not exactly. You swallow. How are you supposed to tell her this? Isn't coming out to your parents supposed to be a big deal—if that's what this is?

Your mother takes a long, deep breath.

Santana, if you're worried about telling me there's something more than friendship going on between you, I already know.

What?

I see the way you two are together. The way you look at her. All of those sleepovers. Your mother gets up to pour you each a cup of coffee, black, and hands yours to you before settling back down. At first I thought it was one of those crushes we all get around thirteen or fourteen, but it's obvious you two are head over heels for each other. I can't say I was crazy about the idea at first, but I've gotten used to it. So you see? You can tell me whatever it is.

How did you know when I didn't even know? I mean—not until yesterday. The coffee is too hot to drink yet, but it smells strong and feels good in your hands, like something alive. Obvious, you repeat to yourself. It's obvious. Shit.

Sometimes we're the last to know these things.

God. All this time it was right there in front of me. And everyone knew it but me.

I'm not so sure about that. I bet poor Sam doesn't know yet. Anyway, maybe you're just now ready to face this.

I told her how I felt. She rejected me.

Your mother is silent for a moment. She looks into the cup of coffee she's bracing in her lap, then back at you.

I'm so sorry, honey. What did she say?

You recount what happened at the lockers, and your mother listens, looking thoughtful.

I know it must hurt a lot, she begins, after a pause. But—she did tell you she loves you back. I've seen how she acts around you, San, and trust me, she's as much in love with you as you are with her. She's just with someone else right now.

I feel like I can't be around her after this.

I understand that. It's okay. Give yourself some time to heal. No matter what happens, I promise it won't hurt like this forever. Now, drink your coffee, and then let's hop in the car and drive through for a milkshake. She smiles. Strawberry's still your favorite, right?

Sometimes, you're grateful to have a mother.


	12. Better to reign in hell

Every night, you unravel the times when you should have realized you loved her. There are so many times that you don't know how you could miss it for so long. You think about that last time she spent the night, before the morning when she wanted you to talk about feelings. You held each other the whole night, between sleeping and sex, so that you can't remember when one ended and the other began. Like those dream-kisses that first summer. You want to go back to that night and look into her eyes as you pull her waist against your body and move slowly and gently inside her, with her lithe leg draped over your hip. You want to talk to her as you make love to her and tell her all of the things that you love about her. The way she always moves as if she's dancing. The little things she does when she thinks no one is looking: twisting a lock of her hair around a pencil and letting it spring free, doodling tiny dancing figures in the corner of her notebook. The weird things she says, that make everyone either stare or laugh, but that make your heart collapse with affection.

You want to go back in time and tell her yes, I will sing Come To My Window with you for our duets assignment. You want to tell her, of course what we do is different from anything we've done with other boys and other girls. Those boys made you feel cheap. She makes you feel precious. She treats your body as if giving you pleasure were an act of devotion. She makes you feel beautiful.

You want to get on your knees and undress her slowly. You want to take the time to kiss every part of her: her hair, her eyelids, her elbows, the tops of her thighs, her ankles, her fingertips. You want to worship her hands and her shoulders and her ribs and her hipbones and her pretty knees. You want to keep your eyes on hers as you touch her, as you move inside her, as you make her come.

You want to tell her how you love her over and over and over again, so she will never doubt or forget it.

Then you think of Artie, and you want to pummel her, to tear her hair out by the roots, to bite her, to cry out at her and burn all of those cards she's made you over the years that you keep in a box in your closet.

Every morning, you have a few seconds of weightlessness before the memories plummet into your belly and drag you down. You want to sweep up all of the pieces of that wall you let crumble and glue them back together, so you're that same bitch who doesn't let anyone mess with her and doesn't let anyone—not anyone—get under her skin. You know that Santana. Now you're a stranger, even to yourself.

* * *

><p>Besides everything, nothing has changed. You don't break up with Sam. You still see Brittany every day—you have to—but you haven't said a word to her since that afternoon at the lockers.<p>

At night you can't stop thinking about her. You're like a bee that can't stay away from a can of Coke. But at school you can't get far away enough. Whenever you see that she's considering approaching you, you find somewhere else to be. Across the room, or arguing with Berry and Quinn about writing music for Regionals, even though you don't give a shit about anything anymore. Even locked in a bathroom stall, if you can't find another way.

Doesn't matter where. Just not with her.

She finally blindsides you when you're at your locker and asks what she did wrong. As if she doesn't know. In that moment, your anger overcomes your love. Barely. You want either to slap her hard or to kiss her harder. Instead of doing either, you just snap at her, to scare her away. Even so, even after what she did—how badly she hurt you—it's still as hard to be a bitch to her as it is easy to be one to everyone else.

Just out of spite—for him or for Britt, you're not really sure—you write a mean song about Sam. Maybe deep down you're trying to get him to dump you. You haven't let him touch you since you realized how indifferent you are to sex with guys. It's like eating pork at your abuela's because it's rude not to, even though you don't really like it, and try to swallow it as fast as possible without chewing.

To your surprise, it's Puck who picks up on your misery. He invites you over for a beer a week or so after Regionals, and despite your doubts about his intentions, you take him up on it. You slouch in the recliner in his living room, across from the couch where Puck's sitting, and play with the lever so your legs rise and fall with the panel.

So you don't want to make out? you confirm. You must have it bad for the prize pig.

Don't be a bitch, Santana. I'm just trying to be a better person here. I mean, we're friends, right? Anyway, I can see you're fucked up over something. It's totally obvious.

Fuck you, you snap. Your face is hot. Are you so obviously betraying yourself?

Chill out. I meant to me. Babe, I know you better than—well, almost anyone. He smiles. If it makes you feel better, I don't think anyone's noticed but me and Britt.

You look down at the mention of her name.

Yeah, I thought it was her, says Puck, and tips back the last of his bottle of beer. I know you guys aren't sitting together these days. She's always with Artie. Which is so weird. I mean, I like the guy okay, but I can't believe a chick that hot is with him.

Tell me about it. You slam the rest of your beer. The carbonation stings the back of your eyes.

Did you guys have, like, some sort of catfight?

Your throat burns with beer and an angry retort to the word catfight, but you swallow them both.

I'm in love with her.

Puck coughs and slams his empty bottle onto the coffee table.

Are you fucking serious?

Don't be an asshole. You asked me. Puck is looking at you funny, and you feel sick. Why did you tell him?

Dude, it makes perfect sense, he says at last. I don't know why I never saw it before. He grins creepily. It's totally hot.

You're disgusting.

Just male, baby.

Thought you were trying to be a better person.

Yeah, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. He swats at the air as if brushing away the thought of you two together. Anyway, did something happen?

You pause. Oh, what the hell.

I told her. She chose Wheels McLoser over me.

No fucking way! He scrunches his nose. Who would choose him over you?

Britt, apparently.

He shakes his head, still wearing that stupid smirk.

What?

I should have known it when you sang that song. Trouty Mouth. That poor sucker.

Should have known what?

That you've gone total rug muncher.

Look who's talking, fat fetish.

He laughs. I miss you, Lopez. But seriously. If there's one thing I've learned from chasing that enormous ass, it's that persistence pays off. The Santana I know wouldn't just roll over and let someone way less hot keep something she wanted without putting up a fight.

I can't. I've already humiliated myself. You know I don't do that. You pick at the damp label on your beer bottle.

Make her jealous? he suggests.

Didn't work.

You can't mean with Sam. He gives you a long, dry look and shakes his head.

What are you suggesting, then?

Another chick.

You finish peeling off the loose label in one clean piece. Your cheeks burn.

Like who?

Who were you sleeping with before?

I don't sleep with girls. Well, except Britt.

Okay. There's the first step. You got a fake? All right, my cousin can get you one. And then, we're going to get you laid.


	13. Babylon

Armed with a newly minted fake California drivers' license, you walk with Puck to the door of the one lesbian bar in town. You're sick with nerves and regret, but you can't back out now, not with Puck in tow. Besides, you've told your mom that you're sleeping over at Quinn's. You have nowhere else to go.

Relax, babe, he soothes you, misinterpreting the source of your anxiety. Using a fake is easy. It's all about confidence. Besides, they're not going to turn away a hot little piece like you. That's just bad business.

At the door, a thick thirtyish woman in a black tank top takes your IDs, and as she studies them and you, you take in her buzz cut, the row of studs and gauges up the line of her ear like hole punches in a spiral notebook. This is a dyke. You're not a dyke. You don't know what you're doing here.

She hands back your respective IDs. You, she says to Puck, out.

That's bullshit, he spits.

You'd better get the hell out of here before I decide to hold on to that ID you handed me. She turns to you. You can go on in.

This is bullshit, Puck repeats, softer, and looks at you. Well, you might as well go in. If you don't get some ass, call me later and I'll pick you up. Good luck, Lopez. He slaps your ass and sticks his hands into his pockets. You look from his expectant face to the bouncer's.

Better go in before I take a closer look at your ID, she hints.

You swallow and, without looking back again, walk into the throbbing darkness.

This is your first time in a bar, much less a dyke bar. It smells like adults and guilt and regret, like old sweat and booze stains. Your eyes adjust to the low light, and you register the line of bar stools along the side wall; the tables with clusters of talking women; the small wooden dance floor with only two couples, neither of whom is really dancing: one is embracing, and the other is swaying.

Then you notice how many eyes are now on you.

You think of how you must look here, among the tanks and jeans, in your low-cut, skin-tight black and purple dress, the one that makes you feel like such hot stuff at school but here feels about as appropriate as a prom dress. All you want to do is run out the door, past the dyke bouncer, into Puck's arms; to have him drive you home to cocoon yourself in the pillows and blankets on your bed.

And think of Brittany.

Fuck that. Here you are. You reach into the side of your bra and pull out a warm, damp bill. Time for a drink.

Put that away, says a smoky voice beside you. A hand braces your shoulder. What do you want, honey?

You turn to the source of the voice: a tall slender woman, maybe in her mid twenties, with long red hair, skinny jeans and stiletto heels. Her lips have a perfect cupid's bow and are painted dark and matte, like an old time movie star's.

Vodka, you tell her.

Just vodka? Anything in it? She gives you a slow, careful look. How about a vodka tonic?

You don't know what that is, but you nod. With her hand still on your shoulder, she directs you toward the bar and leans over to shout at the violet-haired bartender.

Hey, two vodka tonics. The order placed, she turns back to you. So, what's your name, sweetie?

Santana.

That's pretty. I'm Kelly. She smiles. What brings you here all alone?

I came with my friend, but they didn't let him in.

Kelly laughs. Of course not, she says. Look around. They don't hang a sign on the door, but they might as well. You look closely at a few of the ambiguous figures in jeans and loose shirts, but she's right: they're all women.

The bartender slides your drinks over the bar, and Kelly slaps down a twenty. She picks up both drinks and hands yours to you, sweaty and fizzing.

To nuns and virgins—she taps the rim of her glass against yours—thanks for nothing. She grins and takes a long drag from the straw. You follow suit. The vodka burns a little, but you keep your face straight until after you swallow, when an unexpected bitter taste makes you clear your throat.

Someone hasn't had a vodka tonic before, notes Kelly with amusement. I don't even taste the quinine anymore. Well, at least you're safe from malaria. She smirks. You wonder what she's talking about. Still, after the first sip, you kind of like the bitterness.

Come on, come meet my friends. Upon pocketing her change, Kelly takes your free hand and leads you to a table with three other women: on the left, a pretty blonde who looks not much older than you; the other two Kelly's age or a little older, both with cropped hair. The one on the right has a rose tattoo covering her shoulder.

Hannah, Jess, Tammy—she introduces them from left to right—meet Santana.

New blood, notes Jess, with a grin halfway between maternal and predatory. Nice to meet you. The other two women echo her welcome; each shakes your hand. You maintain your tight smile and your silence—you haven't felt so new and overwhelmed and helpless since you were the new girl at school six years ago, and being mean won't help you now.

So, what's your story? asks Tammy. New in town? You look a little young to be at a bar.

Oh, shush, says Hannah, looking at you kindly and touching your arm. Let her enjoy her drink before the inquisition.

Fair enough. Tammy shrugs. Pivoting to Jess, she pick ups the thread of their previous conversation, while Hannah and Kelly turn to you.

They're together, in case you can't tell, says Kelly. Although it's pretty obvious. They're starting to look alike.

Asshole, says Jess, unruffled, overhearing the remark, and returns to Tammy.

Anyway, don't be worried about the age thing, continues Kelly. Hannah just turned twenty-one, but she's been coming here for a couple of years. They're not too picky about IDs, as you've noticed. I mean, it's a small town. Where else are the baby dykes going to go to learn the ropes? She looks you up and down. You are eighteen, though, right?

Nineteen, you lie. You're looking at Hannah now. She's thinner than Britt, almost pixie-like, with delicate features, and she's the only one besides you who's wearing a dress and heels. Hers are modest black kitten heels; she's hooked one of them around the bottom rung of the bar stool. Her hair is shoulder-length, choppy and mussed, but you'd never have guessed she was a lesbian if you'd seen her on the street. She looks so made-up and wholesome. She's watching you watch her; her mouth tips into a ciphered smile.

They ask you what you do; you tell them you're taking classes at the community college. They seem satisfied with the answer. Hannah works at the front desk of a law firm. Kelly's a massage therapist. They seem so adult and put together, and that intimidates the hell out of you. But you're Santana fucking Lopez—if you can't fake this, who can?

Three or four drinks and a shot later—they keep handing you drinks, and the cash you brought just gets warmer and sweatier in your bra—Hannah asks you to dance. She leads you onto the empty floor and presses you to her with a hand on the small of your back. You're almost exactly the same height. You feel lightheaded and warm and careless, and you like watching her mouth and her glistening throat. Her eyes are paler than Britt's: that stone-gray watery color.

After the song ends, Hannah takes your hand and pulls you to the bathroom, locking the door behind you. She presses you against the wall with one hand at the top of your chest—almost at your throat—and kisses you. She tastes like screwdriver and something foreign. She's a really good kisser—almost as good as Britt. You're not used to being the one shoved against a wall, but it's hot and makes you feel wild and wet, like a threatened animal.

When she takes you home to her apartment, you suddenly remember you're barely seventeen and the only girl you've ever slept with is Brittany. But you hardly have time to think about it before Hannah says, where were we? and leads you into her bedroom. She has a poster on her wall of vintage vibrators and a bookshelf packed with volumes titled with weird words like intersectionality and womanifesto.

You shake off your uncertainty and kiss her, hard—she takes over quickly, pushing you onto her bed and peeling off your panties without so much as letting you kick off your shoes. She gets on her knees, pulls your thighs forward, and sinks her mouth between your legs.

Whatever she's doing, it feels incredible. Even though you're almost fully clothed, you feel as naked as if you had peeled off your skin and your muscles and exposed your bones to the cool air. Sex has never felt so little under your control—like it's just happening to you.

You can't help it—you close your eyes and imagine it's Britt's mouth unraveling you like this, like it's her soft hair brushing the insides of your thighs, her nails digging into the flesh just above your knees. When Hannah plunges two—then three—fingers inside you, making you quake and whimper, you hover near the edge of climax, but every time you can feel yourself about to fall, you think of Brittany and draw back. Your throat tightens with tears.

Hannah pulls away, fingers still inside you. What do you need? she asks, almost businesslike, but you know what you need, and she can't give it to you. Don't, don't, don't, you tell yourself, squeezing your fingernails painfully into your palms, but you do—you break down; your body releases as if you were coming instead.

Hey. Hannah pulls out carefully. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?

No, you manage through your sobs. God, what's wrong with you, that you can't even get through a hookup?

I'm not your—this isn't your first time, right? With a girl?

No. I'm sorry.

It's okay. Here, stay here a sec. Get comfy. I'll get you some water.

She leaves, and you lie down on your side, hugging your chest as if to hold in the tears. When Hannah comes back, she sets down a glass of water on the bedside table and lies down across from you, smoothing back your hair to look into your eyes.

Hey, she says. You all right? Want to talk about it?

I'm sorry, you repeat. I'm just—it's kind of hard right now.

What is?

Ever been in love with your best friend?

To your shock, Hannah starts to laugh. She puts her hand over her mouth.

Sorry, she says, it's just—well, of course I have. It's kind of a lesbian rite of passage.

I'm not a lesbian, you protest automatically. Hannah raises an eyebrow, glancing between your legs, but says nothing. You soften. Okay. Maybe I am. I kind of don't know yet. I'm just in love with Brittany. I don't know what to do.

Have you told her how you feel?

Yeah. She blew me off for this loser guy she only started dating in the first place to make me jealous.

Oh man, that's rough.

We've been sleeping together for a couple of years, but it didn't—I mean, I didn't realize it meant something until now.

Funny what we can ignore when we put our minds to it.

We were cheerleaders. Popular. Popular girls can't be gay. At least, that's what I thought.

Speaking of ignoring things we don't want to know, laments Hannah, looking at you apprehensively. I'm afraid to ask, but—you're not nineteen, are you, Santana?

You shake your head. Seventeen. I'm a junior at McKinley.

Hannah buries her face in her hands. Jesus Christ. She rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs. Fuck. Anyway—sorry, honey. Tell me more about the girl.

You tell her all about Britt—about her sweetness and her quirky innocence, about the way you two used to be, about the way she could touch you and make the rest of the world go away. You tell her about the rules, about the way you blew her off and acted like she was just a warm body to you the moment she hinted she wanted something more.

Shit, you've got it bad, says Hannah. How did you manage to deny it so long?

I don't know, you answer honestly.

Santana, why are you here right now?

I wanted to make her jealous.

She considers for a moment before responding.

Well. I have two thoughts. On one hand, I don't see why you want to hurt her, when it made you both feel so bad before. On the other hand, I totally get how you want to make her jealous after she stomped on your heart like that. So my advice is: don't focus on her. Instead, just find another way to be happy. Move on. It's the best revenge when someone breaks your heart.

How can I be happy when I hurt like this?

You'll figure it out. Just wait. I bet the answer will come to you.


	14. Lotus eater

(Author's Note: A companion piece is now up and in progress: same chronology, Brittany's perspective. This fanfiction thing is eating my life.)

* * *

><p>You almost never remember your dreams. But this one happens over and over and over and sticks to you the mornings after like the stench of smoke in your hair.<p>

In the dream, you're in the hallway. By the lockers. The hallway is gray and tight and small and sweaty and everyone looks at you as they pass as if they're waiting for something to happen, and all at once you turn and Brittany is there, crack, an apparition in bled color that grows painfully bright. She's got a halo like the Madonna in a church painting and it hurts you to look at her. Just like when you're awake.

You tell her that you love her and that you hate her. You hit her and scratch her and cry. She seizes your wrists and her fingers are even longer and thinner and whiter and her eyes too big and too dark, all pupil and no reflection.

Let me go, you cry. The others disappear: you can't tell when, but they're all gone as you look for help.

I love you, she says. I won't let you go.

You're hurting me.

Yes.

You look down and you're naked, alone, and your wrists burn. Suddenly you're wet and you want her so bad you swear you'll die if she doesn't touch you now. She twists you toward the locker and slams your back against the cold metal and fucks you without mercy. Her touch burns; you're crying, but you don't resist—you don't want her to stop. You look into those hard dark eyes and they soften, slowly, until you can't look at her anymore.

At that moment you wake up sweating, still wet, and touch yourself. You think of the time, and of the time, and of the time—it never takes long.

Afterwards, you can fall asleep again. You don't dream.


	15. Secret and divine signs

When Puck texts you to ask for the dirty details, you tell him nothing happened, that no one was hot enough and you flirted your way into a ride home. After what he did for you, you probably owe him the truth, but Puck and the truth would add up to trouble. Besides, you kind of like having it a secret, something of your own, that you bagged a hot 21-year-old.

At any rate, after how mind-blowingly good it felt to have sex with another girl, you're certain of one thing: you're definitely, definitely gay.

Your heart still feels like it's been cranked through a pasta cutter ever time you see Britt with Artie. But being sure you're a lesbian does something to you. It's not just about being in love with Brittany now: it's about who you are and what you want, and that puts you back in the driver's seat, because Santana Lopez is a girl who gets what she wants.

Being a Sapphic sister is like putting on x-ray specs. You had no idea how many queers were in Lima, Ohio, but suddenly it's like the whole town's been taken over by rainbows. The guy who sells lottery tickets where your mom shops for groceries, who's always checking out the bagger boys. That barista chick at the coffee shop with short fingernails and too many rings. Even your chemistry teacher, Mr. Henley, who always seems to bump into the freshman English teacher just on the way to the teacher's lounge.

Still, Dave Karofsky—Lord Dickface von Slushington—that one throws you for a loop.

It's so easy to play off his fear. He's got so much more to lose than you. You're not ready to be outed yet, but it's going to happen eventually—at least, when you find a way to get Britt to be with you. Karofsky's afraid of his own damn shadow.

The plan goes off without a hitch: you start an anti-bullying league—may come in handy soon, for you too—bring Kurt back to McKinley—you have to admit, you've missed his snark—and now you're dating a football player again; best of all, you don't even have to put out for yet another meatball jock.

Damn Brittany for making you feel like a fool all over again. One look from her at the lockers when you refuse to wear the shirt she made for you and you feel as cowardly as Karofsky. How dare she condescend to you like that, after all the times you've protected her and kept her from feeling bad about herself?

Anyway—who are you kidding? Every time you think you've got yourself under control, you spot Brittany and you feel as if your chest has been carved open like a Thanksgiving turkey. You're lost, and there's no finding yourself until Brittany belongs to you.

* * *

><p>Since you tapped into your inner gaydar, you've kind of forgotten that it works the other way too. So when you catch Kurt looking at you one day in Glee and realize you've been staring at Brittany again, it takes you a minute to realize that he sees straight through you.<p>

You immediately rummage in your backpack for some lip gloss. Way too late. Kurt looks like the cat that ate the damn canary, and it's making your heart pound.

He keeps you after practice on the pretense of asking about a number for Nationals, but you know that's bullshit. Still, this is going to go down sooner or later.

I know, he says, as soon as you're alone. And it's okay.

Know what?

He gives you a withering, oh-honestly-Santana look. The kind Brittany gave you in the hallway when you showed her your Bitch shirt for the Gaga assignment. Kurt's expression makes you feel almost as small and ashamed.

Fine, you say. You know. What do you want, a cookie?

Hey, don't be like that. I'm on your side.

What do you want from me?

Just to help. We friends of Dorothy have to stick together. He leans against the piano. I haven't forgotten the way you stood up for us in the hallway before the benefit. And even though Karofsky seems to think you did what you did for Machiavellian reasons, I'm still grateful for what you did to make it safe for me to come back. He clears his throat. So, I have a question.

You say nothing, waiting.

Why are you pretending to date Karofsky?

You narrow your eyes. Kurt, you know why.

Self-loathing homophobia?

Big talk for someone who pretended to date Brittany last year. It's the first time you've said her name in this conversation. You realize how rarely you let yourself say her name out loud these days, like it has some talismanic power over you. You swallow and look at your feet. But when you look up, Kurt doesn't look smug or knowing; he looks so genuinely sad for you that it makes your throat catch.

Don't look at me like that, you say.

You're luckier than I was when I came out, he says. The person you love loves you back.

She doesn't, though, you say, and you feel yourself about to break down again.

She does, insists Kurt. It's so obvious. She worships you, Santana. But do you really think acting like you're ashamed of what you feel for her is going to make her leap into your arms?

You say nothing.

Come over to my house this weekend, he says. You and me and Blaine, we're going to talk this out. He smiles. Oh, and by the way—you don't need to worry about any of this leaving the room. As you know, I'm very good at keeping secrets.

* * *

><p>It's getting a little easier to talk to Britt—at least, when Artie isn't around to remind you that you're her second choice. She still hasn't been to your house since your locker confession; you're not sure you could handle seeing her on your bed.<p>

Before you go over to Kurt and Blaine's, you pull the shoebox of Brittany's cards and pictures out from the corner of your closet for the hundredth time in the past few weeks. You tell yourself that you just need a reminder of why you're about to tell two more people about this thing you're having a harder and harder time keeping a secret. But you forget your excuse for doing it as soon as your fingers riffle through the construction paper and glossy photo prints and notebook pages. You find the one you need: a scrap torn from the top of her history notebook last year, written on in pink felt-tip marker. She'd slipped it under your folder during class when she saw you looking troubled. You don't even remember what was wrong that day, because as soon as you unfolded it and read what was inside and caught her secretive grin, whatever had been bothering you vanished.

Surrounded by little flowers and two tiny ballerinas, in Brittany's ballooning script, it reads: San, did you know you're my favorite thing in the world?

* * *

><p>When you ring the Hummels' doorbell, Finn answers. He seems as surprised as you to find the two of you on opposite sides of his front door. You won't lie: you completely forget sometimes that the two of them live together.<p>

Santana? What are you doing here?

You're struggling for a reply when Kurt's voice rings from the stairs, The doorbell's for me. Once he reaches the bottom of the staircase and sees that the door's already been answered, he shrugs and smiles at you.

Come in, Santana. Blaine and I just started Cabaret. He turns to Finn. Santana is doing a report on the modern movie musical for American History. We're giving her a primer.

Finn doesn't look convinced, but he just shrugs.

Okay. That's cool. He flashes that little crooked grin. Anyway—uh, nice to see you, Santana.

Kurt shows you up to his room, where Blaine waves at you from the bed, eyes fixed on the screen where Liza Minelli dances in fishnets and a bowler hat.

Settle in, Kurt tells you. I'll go downstairs and get you a Perrier.

You scope out the seating situation and pull over Kurt's desk chair to straddle. Blaine tosses you a sham pillow and you wedge it between your body and the seat back, folding yourself over it and resting your chin.

Kurt comes back, hands you a bottle of sparkling water and a straw, and settles on his bed. Blaine rolls over and rests his head in Kurt's lap. Kurt cranks down the volume with his remote, and both boys turn to you expectantly.

What? you say. You're the one who invited me here.

Yeah, says Kurt, to discuss your problem.

You wonder again what you're doing here. You and Kurt have never been close, and Blaine—well, you can count the number of times you've hung out with him on one hand. Blaine seems to sense your hesitance and shifts a little to look closer at you.

Listen, Santana, Kurt and I have been where you are. We get it. You don't have to feel ashamed or embarrassed.

We just know you probably don't have that many people to talk to about this, adds Kurt, and—well—what you did about Karofsky, that was pretty amazing.

We just want to help.

You look at their faces, both so earnest and kind, the way nobody's ever really been with you except your mother—when she can be bothered—and Brittany.

Okay, you say. Where do I start?

The beginning, suggests Kurt.

Well. We've been friends since fifth grade, and I guess we've been sleeping together for, like, almost two years.

Wait. Kurt's double take almost throws Blaine's head off his lap. Two years?

Let her talk, says Blaine, rubbing the back of his head.

Anyway, you know how it is for us. I guess it just never felt like it meant anything. Well—you correct yourself—at least I got pretty good at convincing myself it didn't. But it was always different with her.

They're both smiling now, on your side, and you feel yourself open up, almost physically, like the doors of a cage swinging open. The narrative flies out of you so easily it's like it was always meant to be out in the open. You don't leave things out the way you did with Puck or your mother; you don't beat yourself up the way you did talking to Hannah. This isn't a confessional. It feels like—well, almost like talking to Brittany.

So how have things been between you since you told her you loved her? Blaine asks.

Weird, you admit. We still talk a little, not like we used to, but every time she gets near it I can just—it's like I feel a door in me slam shut. It just hurts too much, you know? I can't be that vulnerable again. And she keeps pushing me to come out and I'm just not ready.

I get that, says Kurt, but if you really want her, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to.

Why? Tears spring to your eyes. Why can't it be her turn to put herself on the line?

Sounds like she kind of has, Blaine points out gently.

Okay. Kurt sighs. Time for some tough love. Try to put yourself in her shoes. You have feelings for your best friend, whom you're sleeping with, but every time you start to tell her how you feel, she shuts you down and says that what you do together means nothing to her.

You crumple in your chair like he's punched you in the stomach.

So then, Kurt continues, you go find someone who makes you feel safe and loved and isn't ashamed to show he loves you, and all of a sudden your best friend decides she loves you after all and wants you to just drop everything to be with her. Why would you suddenly trust her when she's hurt you so much in the past?

God, you really feel like shit now.

Point is, Santana, do you really think being hostile and closed off is going to make her come to you? I mean, I know it hurts to think of being so honest again, but it's the only way to win her back. She keeps telling you that; you're just refusing to listen.

He looks to Blaine for confirmation. Blaine gives him such a soppy smile of admiration that your stomach twists even tighter.

Listen, says Kurt. Finn told me about your Landslide duet. He said he's never seen you like that before. That he's liked you better ever since you did it. I bet you anything that's the Santana Brittany loves—the one who sang her a love song in front of the whole Glee Club.

You flush with an emotion you can't quite identify. It makes your throat tight. Everything Kurt has said stings—because it's all true, and because it means you're going to have to crank up the thermostat of your own personal hell to an even more sweltering degree. But no one knows better than you the value of being brutally candid when you've got something real to say. Honestly, you're grateful that someone finally gave it to you straight.

Guys, you promise you really won't tell anyone about this?

Of course not, Blaine assures you.

We don't believe in outing people, adds Kurt. You'll come out when you're ready. Until then, we'll hold onto your toaster oven for you.

Between pain and relief, you're so close to crying you want to run out of the room and back to your car. But instead, seeing your distress, Kurt drags you off your chair and pulls you onto the bed. At first you stiffen when he and Blaine wrap you in a collective bear hug, but slowly you relax and settle into the sheets.

It's going to be all right, says Blaine.

Yeah, put it out of your mind for a while, agrees Kurt. Nothing a little Liza can't help. He turns up the volume on Cabaret. Besides, now that you're family, we've got to educate you on your heritage.

You can't help but smile at that one. Maybe it wouldn't hurt after all to have a couple of actual friends—besides the one you're in love with, that is—even for a girl like you.

Especially for a girl like you.


	16. Match in a crocus

(Author's Note: Chers lecteurs, I do read—and enjoy—your reviews, and wanted to let you know I'm listening.

Now and then I get mentions in reviews about the style: either the second person or the lack of quotation marks. There are also no italics. I thought I'd take a sec to let you know why I do it this way, especially since I do use pretty conventional formatting/narrative techniques in "Pas de Deux."

The reason the story's told this way, as opposed to the more straightforward style of Brittany's account, is to create a claustrophobia around Santana's character: she's both a character with tight control over herself and a character who is ultimately unable to control that which she most wishes to control. First person narration would offer the same opportunity to express her unreliability, but would limit my vocabulary and narrow the voice; in second person, we see what Santana has to keep telling herself—or, alternatively, what the little voice is trying to tell her. Keeping others' dialogue in the same format highlights the fact that everything comes through that tight filter; the mélange is, in some ways, exactly the point, as she's sometimes unable to distinguish her outward projections and her inner insecurities.

I hear you in that it might be a little trickier to read; even though I try to clarify with dialogue tags, sometimes I don't catch everything, as I write quickly and with no beta. For those of you who aren't huge fans of the style: thanks for sticking with the story anyway. I adore my readers and always appreciate your reviews!

As for this chapter: I'm still working on the events of Rumours and hope to post it for you by tomorrow, but I've been scrambling to finish my thesis by the end of the week and can't promise anything. Hope this tides you over…)

* * *

><p>It's almost exactly a month after you told her you love her that Brittany finds you again, at your lockers, and asks you to come home with her.<p>

Britt, I can't.

Sure you can. You're still my best friend. Britt takes your hand and swings it in hers. You don't pull it away.

I don't know.

Just come over. I really want cookies but I don't know how to make them. You have to help me, okay?

You smile at her. She reflects your smile back, three carats stronger. It's impossible to stay strong around her. You don't want to, even.

Okay. I'll come over.

* * *

><p>It's already six, but Brittany's kitchen is still full of sunlight. You've just started melting the butter in a saucepan on low heat when Britt calls you over.<p>

San, it's going everywhere, she whines. She's trying to scoop the flour you ordered her to measure out into a teacup using a soup spoon. There's a halo of flour on the counter, and her hands are as white as a marble statue's. You can't help but smile.

Britt, when I say a cup, I don't mean just any cup. I mean one of these. You hand her the one-cup measure. Try just digging it in like a shovel. You show her with a half-cup measure of white sugar. She looks at the canister and the cup doubtfully. You laugh.

Here, this'll be more fun, you say, and slide over the bag of brown sugar. Now, just dig the cup into the sugar and pack it in like you're making a sandcastle.

She packs the sugar with the heel of her hand, smiling, and afterwards you have her turn over the sugar turret into the mixing bowl. After pouring in the white sugar and butter, you crank on the hand mixer, and Brittany watches as you beat it into a smooth slurry. She cracks in the eggs as you mix—one, two—and you pour in a generous puddle of vanilla extract.

Smells good, San.

Yeah. You can never get too much vanilla extract. It's basically the shit.

You and Brittany have made chocolate chip cookies a good dozen times before. You never use a recipe: your cousin in Cleveland taught you as a little girl. Melt the butter, two parts brown sugar to one part white, tons of vanilla and milk chocolate chips. Her secrets to perfect cookies—and now yours. Even though you've done it so many times together, Brittany never remembers how to make your cookies. Or, at least, she likes to be taught again and again.

But this time, it feels different. As you scoop and roll cookies to place on the baking sheets—Britt's twice as fast as you, and sneaks more bites of cookie dough into her mouth as she works—you just want to take her hands and lick her fingers and palms clean and then kiss all of the chocolate and butter and sugar from her mouth. It makes you ache that you can't.

You okay, San?

Britt's looking at you with a cocked-ear puppy expression. The glob of cookie dough in your hand is getting too hot and the batter is oozing along your heart line; you must have stopped working as you fantasized about kissing her.

I'm fine.

* * *

><p>While Britt sits on the bed, munching a fresh cookie, you sit at her desk chair, curled up and clutching your knees. You've never sat on this chair before—it's kind of stiff—but you can't sit on her bed with her now. Not when everything in you is aching so hard to kiss her.<p>

I missed having you here, she says. I forgot how much my room smelled like you until it didn't anymore. I mean—it smells like cookies now, but it'll smell like you after you…

Britt trails off, not wanting to finish the sentence, as if saying the word out loud would make you leave right now.

You remain silent. You're wondering why you came here. It hurts too much. You feel like you have nothing to say, because your days are filled with thinking of her. It's like when you cook something with garlic in the kitchen and the smell soaks into the whole house, into your clothes and your hair. Brittany's seeped into every room of you.

Why won't you come sit with me here? she asks, patting the space next to her. The puppy look intensifies.

You know why, Britt.

Are you still punishing me? Britt's voice is so soft and sad that your heart crumbles a little.

I'm not punishing you, you assure her.

Then come here. Just for a few minutes. You feel so far away.

She looks small, legs folded in front of her. She clutches her ankles like she's doing a ballet stretch and rocks a little. You sigh, get up, and go lie down on the bed, as far away from her as you can. It's no use. As soon as your head's on her pillow, Brittany is using you as hers, pulling your arm over her shoulders like a shawl and nuzzling into the soft dint of your shoulder. God, she smells so good. She feels so good. Your heart is about to crack open your ribs. She must hear it, with her ear pressed just next to your breast like she's listening to a conch shell. Her lips are about an inch above your nipple. Why did you move to the bed? You knew it was a terrible idea. You swallow so hard it echoes in your ears.

It's okay, San, she whispers. What we do isn't cheating, remember?

You realize what she's really asking you. Your heartbeat revs up even harder, like Brittany's twisting the ignition.

It isn't, right? Britt's voice begs you to agree.

Right, you tell her.

She shifts her head to kiss the side of your breast, and you shudder as if she were touching you. It's almost too much. All you can hear is your own heartbeat, which is all over you now, like a slick beating skin. Her lips move to the soft place where her head was just resting, then to your collarbone, the divot of your throat—you have to tilt your head back, and for just a moment you're afraid she'll bite your throat clean through—and all over your neck. Her mouth is the softest warmest wettest thing you can imagine—well, besides maybe one more thing.

No, you remind yourself. You can't. You can't. You can't do this.

You open your mouth and draw in the breath that will stop Brittany, but instead, Brittany stops your mouth. Your lungs are about to burst until her tongue runs the length of yours, and you sigh into her. She tastes like cookies and brown sugar and your sweat and, best of all, like Brittany.

As you kiss, she fits her body over yours and settles softly and slowly. You try to stop your body from rising to meet hers, to keep your legs from parting around her hips, but you can't; it's like trying to hold your breath or stop blinking. Your heart still beats in your skin, hardest of all between your legs, and even though you're both wearing jeans, you feel like your bare skin is meeting. You sigh again, a pitched sigh that sounds more like a moan.

It feels so good. Too good. You moan as she rolls her whole body against yours, over and over; you clutch her back and hold her to you and kiss her so your sounds vibrate against the wet length of her tongue. Your eyes are shut tight to dam the tears that would turn your moans into sobs.

She parts her mouth from yours.

Santana, open your eyes.

I can't. I—Oh!

You cry out in surprise: her body has rolled against yours one more time and you're over the edge, pushing yourself helplessly against her over and over. You didn't even know you were close. And for the next few seconds, all you can remember is that Britt's with you—she catches on and kisses you while the hardest waves rock your hips.

Your eyes are still shut. You feel so open and helpless—and now humiliated, for coming like that, fully clothed, before she even touched you. And it's then that you break. You open your eyes now and let yourself cry. Brittany holds you and kisses your face and strokes your hair out of the way of your tears. Her eyes are soft and glassy too.

Don't cry, San. It's okay.

No, it's not, you tell her through your tears, but you can't explain when you're trying so hard to pull yourself together. You bite your bottom lip so hard you taste iron.

Yes it is. It's okay. I—it just feels good to be close to you again.

Your heart pounds. You say nothing.

Stay the night, she says in a whisper that tells you exactly what you'd be staying for.

You want to say no. You want to feel bad about what you've done, since you know it's only going to hurt more to see her with Artie in the daytime and let her fuck you in her bed whenever she wants. It isn't fair. But you don't want to leave; you don't ever want to leave her body that feels like everything you ever wanted and could never have.

Okay, you tell her. She kisses you and you know she tastes herself on your mouth, tastes herself and you—all you taste is Brittany Brittany Brittany until you think you'll die of it.


	17. Lady Lazarus

(Author's Note: For those of you who follow Pas de Deux, I will update soon; give me a few more days to finish the thesis and your patience will be rewarded.

Many thanks to my new beta, terriblemuriel, especially for pushing me to dig in a little more at the end of the chapter.

Small note: the cookie secrets from last chapter are my real secrets, from my days in the US when I had a real oven and perfected the art of the chocolate chip cookie whilst grading. If you like to bake and want Santana's recipe, message me.)

* * *

><p>Brittany outed you. You can't believe she outed you. Online.<p>

When she said she was going to start doing an online talk show, she texted you the minute she posted, and you went to watch it. And then she fucking outed you.

Every hour or so you go back and check. The view count is clicking up by tens and twenties. You text her—britt wtf?—but she doesn't respond.

Why would she do that? You know she wants you to come out, but you never thought she'd out you so casually, so distantly. You feel so humiliated. Betrayed. Even more than when she spilled on the conference call just before Sectionals last year.

And fuck that blind item in the school paper. Everyone is going to know who it is. You feel whispers and looks cutting you as you walk through the halls. Your ears burn. You don't even know if you're imagining things.

It seems like every time you almost feel ready to come out, something pushes you further back in the closet. You know Kurt was right. You have to come out. But you think with a twist of guilt about all of those times you saw Karofsky—that douche you almost can't believe you're now pretending to date—throwing him into the lockers, and you did nothing. None of you did anything until it was too late. Now, that's going to be you. And you still don't have Britt.

Tormented with replays of cold slushies and the cold hard lockers you've so recently come into intimate contact with, thanks to one Lauren Zizes, you storm into the choir room and confront Brittany. She gives you an excuse—an excuse so Brittany that you almost believe it. You want to believe it. So you storm out just as suddenly, as if you're still mad, and feel terrible all over, and you decide in the end to believe it. It's easier to believe she can't hurt you like this, so easily, over and over and over again.

* * *

><p>Maybe it's karma. But you're glad about how easily you forgave Brittany the next day when she runs into your arms, crying. She never cries. You've seen this only twice before: once after her childhood cat got hit by a car, and the other after her grandpa died.<p>

Britt-Britt, what's going on? You cradle her head against your shoulder and let her tears darken your shirt.

Artie called me stupid, she whispers.

Everything inside you curdles. You stiffen. You're going to fucking kill that four-eyed bastard.

Jesus, Britt. What the fuck?

He asked me—about you.

You're frozen in place. You don't want to ask—not when she's like this—but oh god, what did she say?

He asked, she continues, if I was cheating on him with you. So I panicked and told him what you told me. That it's not cheating. And he said he couldn't handle it if you were giving me something he's supposed to give me, and said you were trying to break us up, and I defended you because he can't just say things like that about you. And then he—a fresh sob breaks over her—he called me stupid.

Oh, Britt. You're unfrozen now; you brush the locks of hair off her temples and cheeks, where they cling wetly to her skin, and hook them behind her ears. Britt, don't you dare listen to him.

San, I think it's my fault. I—I think I knew all along that what we do is—cheating.

Your heart twists. But in a way you're satisfied. Neither of you is pretending anymore that it doesn't mean anything.

No. No no no. It is not your fault that he called you stupid. Nothing you could do makes that okay. You keep stroking her hair, right there in the hallway, as if no one were watching. Brittany's tears push everything else to second place. Your thoughts tumble and collide in your mind like clothes in a dryer. You can't believe that she defended you like that—to Artie.

It is, though, isn't it, San? Cheating, I mean?

You think for a moment.

What do you want to believe?

She says nothing. But she draws in a long breath. Her tears have stopped. They never last long; they're replaced by something deep and quiet, and she looks as if lead weights had been dropped into her every limb and joint and fingertip.

You know the only thing that can make her feel better right now. It's something you can do, something you can handle. You don't even have to say anything: you just have to lie down on her bed and hold her until she grows soft and light again in your arms.

Britt? You keep stroking her hair with your thumb. Want me to take you home?

She nods.

Okay, you say. Let's go.

When she lifts her face, her expression is still heartbroken.

Hey—you boop her nose to make the next part seem casual—Love you.

A ripple of something you can't quite read runs over her expression.

Come on, you coax her, wrapping your arm around her shoulder to lead her away.

Love you too, San, she whispers, and you have to remind yourself not to smile.

* * *

><p>After Britt has finally fallen asleep in your arms, you look at your phone. Eleven at night. No sweet lady kisses—for once, you're really glad of that. Lately, with your heart still stitched and glued back into some semblance of functionality, it's gotten hard to remember that your first duty is to be Britt's best friend.<p>

She's done with Artie. Now it's up to you. It doesn't feel like you thought it would. You know you should be over the moon to have your chance, so why are you still so scared?

You slide yourself gently out from under her limbs, still draped over you. Careful not to make a sound, you gather your things and start climbing out through her window. You see your own car and remember she's left her own at school; you'll swing by for her tomorrow morning. But first, you need to go home and do some thinking.

When you get home, you settle into your cold bed, turn on your laptop, and start scouring YouTube for tracks from Rumours. It's some pretty good shit, even if it is twice your age. You want to find something for Brittany. Maybe you could just slip back into her bed, but you've decided you want to win her. To show her that this time, everything will be different.

Then you find a clip of Songbird, and it's all over.

You know your mother knows about you and Brittany—well, knows something anyway—but you don't want to practice with her in the house. So early the next morning, you sit in your car in the driveway with the track you downloaded repeating on your iPod and the printed lyrics in your hand. Learning the song doesn't take as long as you expect. Six repetitions are enough. You just hope you don't forget everything once Brittany is looking at you, the way you forget a lot of things lately.

After a last deep breath, seeing that it's time to pick up Brittany, you change the track and hide the lyrics sheet deep in your backpack, folded in half, like a sleeping thing.

When you take her to the choir room, just you and her and Brad—when you asked him if he knew the song, he just laughed, as if you'd asked whether he knew Heart and Soul or Für Elise—you start feeling your nerves creep over you, the way they did just before you sang Landslide. This time will be so much easier—and so much harder.

You sit her down and back away into the crook of the piano. You don't know what to do with your hands; they move like nervous birds. When you sing, you're surprised to hear your own voice, clear and strong, when inside you feel unsubstantial, like you're filled with a whirlwind of newspaper and feathers. Brittany watches you like she can't quite believe it. Like she's afraid to move. So you move closer. And when—the heartbeat rushing to your ears drowns the sound of your own voice—when you sing I love you, for the first time, you could swear she was close to tears herself.

And then it's over, too fast, and you're still looking at each other—it feels like the way she held you last night, like she's afraid to break the touch, to lose her anchor to happiness and drift back into the entropy and anguish of the world outside of the two of you.

At least—you think that's what it is.

Wait, she says. So why couldn't you sing that to me in front of everyone?

It's not what you expected. It stings. You think about Kurt's tough love speech. About the blind item. About the fear that feels like it's pushing back against your chest so you can't move forward. Either it's getting stronger, or you're getting weaker. Maybe both.

No, you tell her. Not—not yet. I'm not ready for that type of—public announcement. You walk back toward the piano as you try to explain it to her; try to pull something of yourself, something stronger, out of this morass of hurt and fear and love and longing.

Well—what if I went first? Brittany follows you right into the crook of the piano, looking as strong as you wish you felt. Come on Fondue for Two. Britt grins confidentially. I'll ask you out to prom—your stomach flip-flops—and, I'll tell you how I feel, and all you have to do is say yes.

You look at her, and it's like when she asked you to come sit with her on the bed for five minutes. You're not ready. You know you're not ready. But you feel her strength pull you to her, and it's like someone else, someone braver, is answering for you.

Okay.

Her smile is blinding. You pull her into an embrace: it's you who needs the anchor now. She feels like home.

* * *

><p>It felt so easy to say yes in the choir room. But now it's time to leave for Britt's and do this for real, and you're sitting on your bedroom floor with your back against your door, studying your phone as if it were a loaded gun.<p>

For a minute, your fear inverts itself into anger at Britt. You told her you weren't ready. Why is she pushing you so hard?

You didn't tell anyone about this. Especially not Kurt. You just couldn't deal with one more person's disappointment if you can't go through with this.

Prom. You imagine, for a moment, the two of you shopping for dresses together, getting mani-pedis. You think about taking her somewhere for dinner, somewhere with classical music playing and a wine list, taking all of her slow dances for yourself, and taking her home after to strip off your dresses and make mad passionate love to her the rest of the night.

Then the picture changes. You imagine yourself at the romantic dinner with the other patrons' eyes on you, wondering where your dates are. You think about slow dancing with her as your eyes dart around for hidden slushies, your ears cocked for whispers and jeers.

You flip open your phone.

i cant

As soon as you send it, your stomach turns; you taste the bile of your own cowardice. You despise what you are; you despise yourself for being such a fucking baby about it. But most of all—you despise yourself for hurting Britt, again, and know that this time, despite your promises to yourself, nothing is different.

* * *

><p>It's like Songbird never happened. It's like you're back to the hallways after she asked to do a duet and you turned her down. She won't talk to you; she'll hardly look at you.<p>

You know you're the one who's wrong, but you can't help it: it makes you angry. It was unfair of her to ask so much of you, so fast.

Like a rubber band stretched too tight in one direction, you find yourself springing back into the other. You're deeper in the closet now, clinging to the pathetic, futile prom royalty campaign with Karofsky. You even post the world's grossest rumor about having sex with Karofsky at a cemetery on the school newspaper's site. Even though the mere mental image makes you want to vomit. As if putting this out were going to erase what that stupid paper has already printed about you, on hundreds of sheets, in black ink.

Then Jewfro interviews you in the hall about it. He tracked down your IP and he knows you did it yourself. You freeze and try not to panic.

And then you see where you've frozen. Right in front of Brittany's locker.

You try not to look at her as you tell his waiting mic that your computer was stolen. But she's there, trying in vain not to watch you, but so heartbroken you don't even have to look at her to understand how much she's hurting. You know—because you know exactly what it feels like.

And yet your mouth keeps moving. Words about being happy with Karofsky are coming out. You're disgusted with yourself. Your fear is speaking for you now, your fear that keeps pushing you backward. Fear like a hydra: every time you thought you'd hacked it to death, it sprouts two new snapping heads.

So, you two are in love? Jewfro asks, clearly skeptical. Soulmates, so to speak?

Brittany's not even pretending not to look now. She's stopped putting on her makeup. Her eyes are directly on yours. All you can hear is your heart—or is it hers—like a pulsing current running through the floors and walls.

Forgive me, you beg her eyes, silently, desperately. Forgive me again. The way I forgave you.

And as you breathe in to answer, you pray she'll know who you mean.

Yeah. I'd say that was accurate.

As you walk away from Brittany without looking at her again, you feel a different kind of pressure in your chest. Not fear. It's a tugging feeling. Like she's clipped a leash to your heart and you're at the end of your line, and yet you keep pulling. You can stop and go back to her, or you can keep walking—and if you do, either she'll follow you, or she'll stay where she is and let you rip the clamp rip straight through your heart.

Turn around now, you tell yourself, lingering at the doorway of an empty classroom down the hall. Turn around and go to her. And for a minute it's just you and your heartbeat, like a metronome, ticking off tiny parcels of lost time. You imagine Brittany picking up the applicator again and smoothing eyeshadow into the creases of her eyelids. Swinging the door of her locker as she tries to remember which books she needs. Waiting for something that will never come.

You wanted to show Brittany that everything would be different. Now, you've lost your chance—again—and you hate yourself for it.


	18. Holy palmers' kiss

(Author's Note: Long ago, reader dsachao asked about the chapter titles. Yes, most—though not all—are allusions. Those of you who are interested will find a guide to them the end of the chapter.

There will be two more installments of this story: Chapter 19 will be published after Pas de Deux Chapter 18, and the final chapters of both stories, 20, will be published simultaneously.

Thanks as always to terriblemuriel and JJ, as well as to Tess from tumblr venuscomb, whose beautiful and intimate Brittana flash fiction is getting under my skin in the best way.)

* * *

><p>You have to admit—Dave Karofsky is growing on you.<p>

After what you did to Britt, it's impossible for you to lie to yourself the way it was so easy to do before. You're selfish. You're scared. You're angry. And part of you is afraid of the kind of happiness you might have with Brittany, the way your eyes ache when you squint at the sun. You're afraid it will be too much. Loving her will kill you.

It's letting yourself admit these things that makes you see Dave—really see him—for the first time.

You're in the Lima Bean, discussing prom royalty campaign strategies and Bully Whips business, when he looks at you a little too hard, huffs like an animal, and glances around.

Do you think you'll ever—he studies a stain on the table—you know, come out?

The sip of coffee in your mouth burns a path up your sinuses. You raise your eyebrows.

I'm serious. He looks back at you. I mean—say you were in love with someone.

Now it's your turn to stare at the dark ring branded into the table. You gulp, letting the bitterness cool on your tongue.

Sorry, he retreats. Maybe that's too personal.

No. It's okay. Your ears are hot. You shake your hair over them so he can't see.

I mean—it's a lot to give up, right? What if you came out—lost everything—and then that person didn't even want you?

Your stomach sours. You've had nothing to eat all day except the black coffee you've been sipping—it's hard to eat lately.

But then you lift your eyes back to Dave's face. He's not looking at you anymore; he's not looking at anything. His fingers worry the sleeve of his cup. And then you realize—he's not talking about you.

You have nothing to gain by calling him out. So for once in your life, you decide to be nice. The way Britt would.

Hey, you say. Awkwardness shutters your throat as you realize you have no idea what to say next. He looks at you, waiting. You try again. I—I think there's someone out there for… everyone.

How fucking stupid. How cliché. You bite your lip—a little too hard—and try one more time.

I think we all deserve to be happy. To try to be happy. I guess you—I guess a person has to figure out for themselves what that means.

He shrugs, his face a cipher.

You imagine the other patrons looking at the two of you. Miserable. Stony. Silent. The same expression on two faces. One thick, beefy boy in a letter jacket. One girl in jean shorts and a loose top that can't hide the whittled-down thinness of grief.

Brittany hasn't spoken to you in five days—not since Fondue for Two, and certainly not since the lockers. Then again, you haven't spoken to her either. Every time you type the first few letters of a text, your heartbeat floods your head and your hands, and you clear the screen.

You haven't really talked to Kurt lately either. Well—not the way you talked to him and Blaine that afternoon when you were so desperate and broken. How could you, since you've wedged yourself deep into the closet and locked the door? Thinking about Kurt makes you feel like a coward, and the last thing you need right now is to feel any worse about yourself than you already do.

Dave, on the other hand—you watch him pull a swig from his coffee like there's an answer at the bottom—he's even worse off than you. He has further to fall. Worse—he has no one to love him.

* * *

><p>Textbooks and notebooks and pencils colonize your bed. You press on a temple and will away an impending headache, trying to concentrate on your third-to-last problem on matrices so you can be done—finally—for the night.<p>

The cottony silence of your room evaporates when something strikes your windowsill. Once. Twice. You abandon the matrix and slide your pencil behind your ear. Shunting aside the curtains, you feel your heart jump before you even know you're seeing her—Brittany—in the darkness, lobbing pebbles at your window. She sees your face and examines the pebble still in her palm before slipping it into her pocket. Her hands follow suit. She's dressed in white and looks paler than springtime against the dark wet grass.

She's here. Beneath your window. Waiting for you.

Your fingers shake as you unlatch the window.

Brittany, you say. It's all you can fit through your tightened throat. But it's enough.

Come down, she says.

You rush downstairs. The night is cool; you pull a throw blanket from the couch and drape it over your shoulders. Then you leave your door open, staining the porch with light, and you go to her.

Britt smiles. Slipping the pencil out from behind your ear, she pockets it, then smoothes your hair with a softness too electric to be friendly. She slides her hand to your cheek.

I thought you were angry, you whisper.

I was.

She bends toward you, almost imperceptibly, but your body feels it like a rush of heat. You wonder if she's going to kiss you. Your heartbeat fogs your ears.

But she doesn't kiss you. She just pulls the blanket back over your shoulder where it's slipped—you didn't even notice you were cold—and then folds your hand into hers. Your eyes draw a line up the length of her arm. The line travels over her bare collarbone, her neck, her jaw, and reaches her waiting eyes.

Aren't you going to ask me to come inside?

Well—yeah. You flush. Duh. Come in.

As you cross the threshold of your empty house, you place a guiding hand between her shoulder blades, the way you usually do. But the gesture feels strange now. Wrong. You let your hand fall to your side.

Brittany settles into your chair and pulls one leg into her chest, watching you gather and clear your homework from your bed. Once everything is neatly stacked in the corner, she settles down on her side of the bed and props the pillow so she's sitting upright. You crawl beside her and—tentatively—rest your head on her shoulder. She adjusts to wrap her arm around your waist and cradle your head into the groove of her neck.

Neither of you has said a word since you came inside. But you feel Brittany's neck shiver as she swallows.

I couldn't stay angry, she admits. I tried.

You wait.

I wanted to be like you. Angry. Strong. Enough to stay away and—I don't know. Teach you a lesson.

You nod. Your knuckles trace lines over her shirt; she sighs.

I can get angry now, San. I can get angry with other people. You know? Like, since you—since we—

You hum and draw a spiral below her ribs with your fingertip.

But not with you, she continues. Not for long, at least.

Your fingers pause. Her voice has clogged. You lift your head and tilt her chin towards you.

No, she whispers. Don't kiss me. I'm—not ready.

You nod. Your heart cracks along its fresh fault lines.

She slips her arm out from underneath you. Readjusts her pillow. Slides down, tilting her body towards yours.

Can we just… hold each other? she asks.

Nodding, you shimmy down the bed and slip your arm beneath her neck, pressing her head to your shoulder. Draping an arm over your ribs, she pulls you in—painfully tight.

Brittany's breath dampens your shirt as you lie together, thoughtless, all heartbeat and air and flesh. You stroke her impossibly soft hair, hair that smells like jasmine and strawberries and nighttime, and seal your lips against the crown of her head.

Can I stay over? she whispers.

You close your eyes. You have no idea how you'll make it through the night without touching her.

Yeah, you tell her. Of course. Let me get you some pajamas. You begin to loosen your hold on her.

No, she chokes. The arm around your ribs crushes the breath out of you. Don't leave me.

Shh. Okay. I won't. You tuck her head back against your shoulder. It's okay. I've got you.

You're drunk off her: her smell, her soft hair between your fingers, the dampness where you press together, and her warm warm skin. She's here—Brittany is here—in your bed, in your arms. Every string in your body is tight, vibrating, freshly tuned. You want her like mad, and yet you don't want anything from her—don't want anything more than this: to feel the resonating, contiguous current that joins your body to her body.

* * *

><p>Dave's eyes dart from you to every possible escape route as you hold the black dress on the hanger up to your body, pulling the waist against yours to eye the fit.<p>

So? you ask.

He has the green, desperate look that Brittany's cat gets whenever she drags him near a bath.

It's… fine. He scratches his ear. I still don't get why I'm here.

You're my date, you remind him. We's gots to match. Those are the rules.

So, you can just tell me what you got later and I'll get a matching tie or whatever, he protests.

The truth is, you didn't want to go dress shopping alone. Too depressing. Kurt would've been a lot more help, but you know what he'd have to say about you going to prom with Dave. Especially since he apparently knows about Dave too—and Dave knows he knows. You'd give your favorite leather jacket to hear that story.

Are you at least going to be done soon? Dave whines.

You lift the other two potential dresses from his arm, which you've been using as your own personal hanger. Hell, if he's not going to offer any constructive criticism, he can still damn well make himself useful.

Just these three. I've got a feeling.

You say it just to bat away his impatience for a few more minutes. But as it turns out, you're a prophet. The last dress you try on is blood red, tight and satiny. The one. You zip it to the top and smooth it over your hips and thighs, and adjust your breasts for maximum cleavage. Admiring yourself in the mirror, you wonder again why a hot piece like you is doomed to lesbianism.

Even Dave cracks a smile when you come out of the dressing room, give a twirl, and ask what he thinks. Maybe you look so hot you turned him straight. More likely, though, it's your smug grin, which he knows means it'll all be over soon.

So that's it, huh? That's the one?

This is it.

It's hot, he concedes. Now let's go. He lunges as if he's been set loose from a trap.

Hey, chill out. You grab his wrist. I haven't even changed out of this yet. Besides, I still need shoes. And you need a tie.

He groans like a kid whose mother is forcing broccoli down his throat.

Come on. Don't be such a baby, you scold him—like his mother. No, seriously. You're, like, the worst gay guy ever.

He shushes you and whips around to see if any passing shoppers are listening.

Oh, relax. You laugh.

Well, I wish you would be more of a dyke, he retorts. That'd make this stupid shopping trip a lot less painful.

Touché. Your cheeks flush with warmth, but you won't give him the satisfaction of checking your surroundings. Whoever heard, heard. Nothing you can do about it now. Besides—you kind of like this Dave.

Sounds great, you say. Tell you what. Let's change out this—you tug at the skirt of your dress—for one in your size, and I'll wear the suit. I could rock that look.

Fuck you, Lopez, he says. But you catch the faintest hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth before he turns away. Now change out of that and let's find your damn shoes so we can get the hell out of here already.

You grin. If the two of you really were dating, that boy would be so whipped.

* * *

><p>Every night, around half-past midnight, you hear the tap of pebbles against your windowsill.<p>

You know, you could just text and tell me you're outside, you whisper to her one night beneath a tree, your bare feet damp from the dew on the grass.

I like this way better. It's like I'm Romy and you're Julia.

You mean Romeo and Juliet, you correct her. Which doesn't stop your heart from speeding up when you consider that she just compared the two of you to the most cliché epic—if tragic—couple in English literature.

Yeah. Them. She takes your hand and leads you to your own front door. It's a gesture at once silly and charming. Your feet are cold and itchy once you step off the grass and onto the paving stones. But it's nothing to the way Brittany's hand feels pressed in yours.

God, when did you get so cheesy?

The second night—or the third, maybe?—Brittany started this strange thing. As you're lying down face to face, she holds you close, her hands on your cheeks, and looks into your eyes.

The first time, it freaked you out a little.

Britt-Britt, what are you doing? Your voice vibrated against her hands. She was so close, so close, and yet she wasn't kissing you; the nearness of her was almost painful, like the bone-soreness of a fever.

Hush, she said, and you felt the rush of breath against your lips. Just let me look at you.

Because you can't say no to her, you softened into the blankets, into her hands, and let her look for as long as she wants. She's not looking for anything. Her eyes don't search. They don't have to. She's the only person in the world to whom you aren't a mystery. No, she just looks, as if she can't get enough of seeing you. As if she's embossing the image of you into her retinas: sketching the dark map of your irises so she can never get lost again.

On the Romeo and Juliet night, she's holding you like this, looking, when her eyes flutter shut for a moment. She wets her lower lip and slides her thumb over your temple.

Why didn't you come?

You don't have to ask what she means.

Britt, I told you I wasn't ready. I'm sorry. I—I overestimated myself.

I shouldn't have asked you, she admits. I knew you weren't ready. I was just—I wanted it so bad, you know? To go to prom with you.

I wanted it too. But Britt-Britt, do you really want our prom to be like that? With everyone staring and whispering and calling us dykes?

Who cares about them? she says, simply. I'd be with you.

You turn your head to kiss the palm of the hand still on your cheek.

You have to give me time, you beg her. Can you do that?

For a second, her eyes flicker, and she really is searching you. Finding whatever she was looking for, she sighs and gives a quick nod.

Not too long, though, she warns, and now it's your turn to nod.

* * *

><p>The festival atmosphere at McKinley is like a narcotic cloud. It's hard not to get caught up in it—even for you. Posters. Chatter. Everyone discussing dresses. And when Mr. Schue tells everyone you'll be singing at prom, the bubbling boils over into full-scale pandemonium.<p>

At your prom gown dry run, when Kurt announces he's going to prom with Blaine, you pull him aside and offer him a security detail, courtesy of the Bully Whips. It's the first time you've spoken alone since watching Cabaret in his room.

Why would you do that? he asks. The softness of his tone feels slightly menacing, and stings the way his snark never could. You want to say, for you. You want to say, because that's what I would want, if I were as brave as you are. But you're not that kind of girl—and he's not that kind of boy.

Because I'll get sympathy votes for Prom Queen, you improvise. I'll be, like, the law and order Eva Perón candidate. You nod to the screen that separates the two of you from the other girls, and smirk. Grimace and Stretch Marks won't stand a chance.

Finally, he smiles. Your smirk melts into a grin. It almost feels like you're sharing a moment.

Dave says yes to the security detail. After all of that shit that went down with him and Kurt, he damn well better. But he agrees so fast you feel a twinge of sympathy that you can't quite explain.

The thing is, you can tease Kurt. Banter. He's not like the others; you can dig in a little and he'll take it like a boss. You even trusted him once. But he doesn't trust you. Not even after you made it safe for him to come back. Worse—now that you've hung it all out there with him, it seems like he has this strange power over you. Only Brittany has the right to make you feel small and cowardly and guilty.

So you pretend your protection is generous—even though Kurt isn't fooled for a second by the prom campaign excuse.

Puck mentions offhand the first day you're on security detail that Artie's planning on asking Brittany to prom. You remember that you confessed your love—well, given, it was when your heart was freshly vivisected, and you'd been drinking, but still—and you almost want to thank him for the tip-off. But what could you do to stop it?

You ask her about it that night on your bed, when your eyes are locked together.

I turned him down, duh, she says, surprised you'd even asked.

Why?

I told you, I'm done with him.

You swallow.

Are you done with me?

She sighs, tilts her chin up, and kisses the tip of your nose.

You're different, she whispers. She kisses a slow line along your cheekbone, then stops. Your heart is hammering. Then she closes her eyes and touches her lips to yours.

You want to pull her body against you and kiss her with everything you've got. It's torturous bliss to have her lips just perched against your lips, her breath warming your mouth. But this is not your kiss: it's hers. So you let her hover there for a moment, keeping your lips soft and your eyes closed, just feeling her.

Finally, her kiss grows firm and sure. She slides one hand into your hair, pushing the strands to the back of your neck, and pulls you in. Gratefully, you close the thin ravine between your bodies: breasts to breasts, belly to belly, thighs to thighs. Your hand braces the small of her back. The kiss is simple—almost innocent—but you can feel how long she's wanted to do this, just as badly as you've wanted her to.

At last, with a few small, reluctant parting kisses on your bottom lip, she pulls away. You slacken and let her.

Let's not break each other's hearts again, San, she says. I want you, I do—you feel her words spread deep in your body—but I want all of you. It can't be like it was before.

It won't be, you promise her.

Good. Then let's take it slow. She smiles and kisses the corner of your mouth. Your whole body is charged, live, from her kiss, but you give her the only possible reply.

Okay.

* * *

><p>Well—this is it.<p>

The acrid smell of burnt hairspray fogs your upstairs bathroom. The tip of one last ringlet slips off the tongs of your curling iron. You check your lipstick and scrape a little more eyeliner below your bottom lashes. Stepping away from the mirror, you take a look. Not a wrinkle in your dress; not a stray hair or smudge. Perfect.

Brittany must be doing the same thing right now in her bedroom mirror a few blocks away. You smile, thinking of how she always applies lipstick to her bottom lip and rubs it against the top, then flicks her finger over her cupid's bow to wick away the stray smudge of color. Then you remember how you didn't say yes to her, and your smile melts away.

The doorbell chimes. Must be Dave. You let your mother answer. Isn't that what a girl is supposed to do on prom night?

The murmur of their conversation floats upstairs; you can hear the notes and the rhythm, though not the words, through the shut door. Dave's voice has taken on a charming cadence you've never heard before. His parent voice, naturally. It surprises you.

Your mother laughs genially; her chatter is warm and eager. There's been no mention, since the night she found you broken against your bedroom door, of what's going on between you and Brittany. The surprise and excitement that registered on her face when you told her you were going to prom with a boy and running for queen makes you suspect that she was hoping Brittany was a phase. Maybe she's just happy to pretend for a while—or relieved to not be forced to tell your father.

Well—showtime. You allow yourself one last centering sigh before beginning your grand prom night descent down the staircase—just the way a girl is supposed to do.

Dave is standing by your mother, collected and confident—luckily for him, your father's still at the practice—and looking up at you with just the right amount of rehearsed, chaste awe. Your mother touches his arm.

Oh, she's a vision, isn't she, Dave?

Absolutely, Mrs. Lopez. I'll be the luckiest guy at prom. He shoots her a million-watt smile. Oh, come on—this is just embarrassingly heterosexual. You feel your gag reflex kick in behind your tight smile.

After he ceremoniously slips a corsage onto your wrist and your mother shoots a few obligatory pictures in the foyer, you manage to escape. Dave takes you to Breadstix, where everyone else is going—well, everyone with a date. You try not to look at anyone and pick at your pasta, even though you usually shovel it in like they're about to take it from you. When Dave asks what's wrong, you tell him, nothing, you just don't want to test the integrity of the seams of your dress by stuffing yourself with carbs.

Brittany isn't there, of course. Who would she go with?

Dave comes with you to the choir room just before prom starts, to check over the set list one last time and warm up. Only Mercedes and Sam and Berry and that douche Jesse kid are there so far. Everyone except Jesse goes a little cold upon seeing Dave walk in, but they're at least polite enough to give him a lukewarm greeting before he skulks off to take a seat in the back row.

Mr. Schue comes back in with a warm stack of copies—the set list—and hands one to each of you. You fold it up small enough to slide into your clutch. You already know everything you're singing—and everything Brittany's singing.

As Schue and Brad begin to warm you up, the other members trickle in, couple by couple. Your eyes dart to the door every time you hear the click of approaching heels. Quinn and Finn. Asian fusion. Puck and Lauren. Then Artie rolls in. You're ascending into the octave that makes your temples buzz by the time Britt finally peeks into the door and tiptoes inside. Your voice wavers on the descending fifth when she smiles at you. Her acid-green dress. Red lips. That silly little fascinator top hat, perched in perfect ringlets—you wonder who curled the back pieces, since you know she can't do it by herself.

Sorry I'm late, she mouths to Mr. Schue. Then she comes to you and rests a hand on your bare shoulder. Her palm feels like a cool kiss.

You look beautiful, she whispers.

You too.

Sam and Artie and Puck, who are kicking off the set list, go off to perform their final sound check. The rest of you file down the hall—you and Brittany and Dave walk together—and join the early arrivers in the gym.

It's a long way from the gym where you and the Cheerios did drills and back handsprings in the winter. The whole space has transformed: maypole streamers, grapelike clusters of balloons, and so much damn tinsel you could cut yourself to ribbons if you fell sideways. You survey the crowd. Only the super lame people are here right now—them, and you.

For a moment, though, you forget everything—Brittany has clasped your hand.

San, it's like fairies came, she marvels. The same fairies who decorated for my sister's birthday party last year.

You know what she's trying to say, so you resist the urge to point out that you two were the ones who put up the decorations for Ashley's party. Or remind her about how you sneezed sparkles for about a week afterwards. Instead, you nod and hum.

Yeah. It's really something, all right.

Her hand is still in yours, moist and soft, and you feel your body blushing. You're not sure how much of it is from the thrill of her touch and how much from the fear that someone is looking. Finally, you slide your hand gently out of hers, fingertips lingering to brush the inside of her wrist, as if to say, I want this too—but not right now.

The three of you lean on the coat check table for a moment, silent and slightly awkward, since it's you who holds the trio together—by thin and strained strings.

Dave clears his throat. Uh, let me—get you ladies some punch, he says, tugging his jacket straight. You and Brittany nod and thank him.

Once he's a few strides away, you and Brittany pivot to look at each other. She doesn't put her hand on your cheek, but it's the same kind of looking: the kind you now practice every night in your bed. Your heart speeds from the strange intimacy of it here, outside your closed room, surrounded by others' eyes.

Will you dance with me tonight? she asks.

Britt, you protest, I'm up for queen. You can't ask me that.

She gives you that new look she has, that dark look that can unravel you, the look that holds a mirror up to your own cowardice.

Maybe, you amend. It's enough—for now. The look clears. She smiles.

By now, the thin trickle of students from the main entrance has sped to a fast-flowing stream, three or four students thick, and the room swells with chatter. Brittany squeezes your hand one last time and begins to pull away just as Dave returns, juggling three cups.

Back, he pants.

Oh, says Brittany, I was just taking off. Don't want to be the third wheel. She shoots you a final look so long and sad that your heart collapses, leaving a cavern in your chest that fills at once with that terrible image. Just as fast, she's swallowed by the swelling crowd.

* * *

><p>You kind of hate to admit it, but after a little while, you're actually starting to have fun at this cheesy damn prom. So is Dave—you don't think you've ever seen him smile so much and so genuinely since you first met. You're cracking jokes, you're dancing, and it's all the fun of being with a guy without any of the bullshit.<p>

You even dance with Brittany—only in clusters, but still—and admire the way she moves, like a joyful little sprite, pirouetting and gyrating and glowing. Dance after dance, she flits from corner to corner, from partner to partner, and a small proud part of you is grateful she's tied to no one tonight, just so she can fly in pure blissful freedom across the transformed gym.

Now and then, you glance over at the ballot box, where students shuffle over, scribble on the provided scraps, and drop them in. A few of them glance at you as they do it. You grin and nudge Dave. Hell—why shouldn't you have a shot?

Dance after dance passes. You and Britt do your rotations on the stage. Finn and Jesse get kicked out—which you have to admit, as a fan of blood sport, is totally satisfying to watch in a schadenfreude way. The ballot box closes. And finally, you and Dave take the stage with the rest of the candidates. You smirk at Quinn, who's now minus her plus one. You can't help but feel a little satisfied that, for once, she's number two.

When Principal Figgins reveals Dave as the prom king, you get a little dizzy. It worked, it worked, it worked. You're on top. You look around for Brittany, who meets your eye with a soft smile.

Then, Figgins opens the queen envelope and begins the announcement fanfare. You steady yourself. This is it. After the hell you've been through this semester, finally something good is about to happen.

But something's wrong. Figgins hesitates before announcing in a hushed voice:

Kurt Hummel.

The temperature of your blood drops fifty degrees. The room is silent. Flooded with silence. The kind you sink in, that fills your lungs.

For a moment, your eyes—like the eyes of everyone else in the room—shoot to Kurt. He has the expression of a child who's just fallen and split open a knee, right before the dam of tears bursts. You wonder what he's thinking right now, this weird brave boy, object lesson of everything you'd gain and everything you'd lose by coming out.

And then it hits you—your own split knee—the fact that the whole junior class would rather torment and humiliate a gay kid than vote for you. Another gay kid. That could be you down there, shielding your face from hundreds of cold eyes, dashing out the doors, away from a gym full of people who have just told you exactly what they think of people like you.

The flooded feeling in your lungs, in your chest, rises to your throat. Next to you, the place where Quinn was standing is vacant. You take that as a cue to flee into the wings yourself. Before you disappear, you exchange one final lost look with Dave, whose face is the strangest puzzle you've ever seen.

By the time you hit the hallway, Brittany is waiting for you. She looks so strong and certain that you let yourself weaken: you break down and begin to babble. She herds you down the hallway and into the dark choir room and listens, speaking very little, until you think of Kurt again and guess that they know you're a lesbian. But then she surprises you.

People don't know what you're hiding, she says. They just—know that you're not being yourself. If you were to embrace all the awesomeness that you are, you would've won.

Her voice is steady, sure, and you marvel again at this new Brittany. Well—not new, just grown: that same seedling courage you love, that calmed and centered you last year with the baby drama and has guided you down from a hundred little rages. Now that seedling strength is full grown; you can lean against it, and you do, gratefully.

How do you know? you ask.

Because I voted for you, she says, simply. And, because—she steps closer, and your heart speeds; for just a moment, you could swear she's about to kiss you—I believe in you, Santana.

You want so badly for her to close the space that separates you. To fold your wild heartbeat into her body and calm you. To kiss the breath and the panic and the coldness out of you. But she won't do that. She wants to you stand up and be strong—strong like her.

This prom sucks, you lash out, and she shrugs. Your nerve falters. Now what am I supposed to do? you ask.

Go back out there and be there for Kurt, she says. This is going to be a lot harder for him than it is for you. She offers you a tissue, and you dab away every patch of moisture and drop of mascara from your face. Her firm unhesitating tone makes you feel cowardly and selfish. You want to explain yourself.

Britt, that would have been us. If we'd gone together.

She glances down and riddles her lip with her teeth for a minute before replying.

You don't know what would have happened.

This isn't New York, you protest. This is Lima, Ohio. We have to remember that.

San, I get it, she cuts you off. I was there too. I saw the same thing you saw.

You shut up then. She understands. Brittany understands what could happen. And yet, she still wants this—still wants you. You're flooded with awe at how brave she is.

Come on, she says, finally. I'll walk you to the wings.

* * *

><p>It's faster to perk back up than you had imagined. Kurt's acceptance and coronation does something to the room. As you and Mercedes sing, you watch the crowd transform, loosen, shift, grin. It's too miraculous a quick-change, but it almost seems like they're on his side.<p>

Whatever Kurt whispered to Dave to make him run away from the dance was apparently pretty bad. When you've finished your performance, you look around for him; he's nowhere to be seen. You text—where are u—and he texts you back to ask whether you can find your own ride home.

You find Brittany dancing with Kurt and Blaine and Artie, and she pulls you into the group for the last half of the song—you're flushed with nerves, but you play along, careful not to dance too close—before she asks you what's up.

How'd you get here, Britt?

Drove myself.

Do you think I can get a ride home with you?

Brittany raises an eyebrow.

What about Karofsky?

He's—gone.

She nods, eyes darting to Kurt and Blaine as they wave and disappear to take the stage, then back to you, registering a question for later. Well, sure, of course I'll drive you home, she says. Do you—

A crackle of the microphone, and Figgins's voice cuts in.

Ladies and gentlemen, the last dance of the evening, he announces. Kurt and Blaine step up to the mics. The opening chords of Save the Last Dance warm the room.

Brittany gives you a long, careful look.

This is it, she says. This is your last chance. Will you dance with me?

Oh, god. You're terrified. You feel like a spooked deer: still, and entirely composed of heartbeat. You can't say yes, and you can't say no.

Santana. Don't be scared. She hooks your pinkie into hers and tugs, leading you to a quiet, dark corner where only a few couples sway, eyes locked on each other. Boy to girl, girl to boy. And then, there's you and Brittany. She leans to whisper in your ear.

No one is looking. It's okay. Just dance with me.

And it's true: no one is looking. Besides, now that you've lost the Prom Queen election, you've got nothing to lose. So you give her one tiny nod, and she rewards you with the biggest, warmest, sweetest smile you've ever seen; you have to remind your legs not to wobble like a newborn fawn's as she pulls you expertly against her.

When the music reminds you not to forget who's taking you home and in whose arms you're going to be, Brittany sweeps you into a turn and dips you ever so slightly. She's subtle, not-too-close, careful not to draw attention to the two of you, but you feel her body, her rhythm, supporting you like the deck of a sailboat beneath your feet. With a small quick flick of her wrist, she tilts your chin toward her, to remind you to look at her and not at the people around you. It works. You can only see her, hear her, feel her: her red lips, the rustle of taffeta, the way her body has warmed the metal of her belt where your hand rests tentatively before you lose your nerve and move it to her shoulder.

You're doing great, San, she whispers.

Careful not to look away from Brittany's eyes, you wonder what it would have been like to spend the evening like this. With her. What it would be like next year, if you could find the courage to come out. Would you be the Kurt standing stunned after the blow of the prom queen announcement, frozen by cold stares? Or would you be the Kurt now onstage, whose hand and voice are blissfully locked to those of the boy he loves?

Thank you, whispers Brittany as the song draws to a close. She releases you, and you stand just apart for a moment, not touching, but unwilling to look away yet. I'm so proud of you.

I love you too, you think, taking a deep breath and hooking your pinkie into hers.

* * *

><p>(Guide to chapter title sources:<p>

2. Brave new world: Shakespeare's _The Tempest, _Act V. "O brave new world/That has such people in't!"

3. The tree of good and evil: Genesis, creation story.

6. And everyone and I stopped breathing: final line of the Frank O'Hara poem "The Day Lady Died."

7. The fox and the lion: a quotation from Napoléon Bonaparte. "I am sometimes a fox and sometimes a lion. The whole secret of government lies in knowing when to be the one or the other."

8. Sea change: Shakespeare's _The Tempest _again, from Ariel's song. "Nothing of him that doth fade/But doth suffer a Sea-change/Into something rich and strange…"

9. Dangerous liaisons: English translation of the title of Choderlos de Laclos's _Les Liaisons dangereuses, _an epistolary novel revolving around Machiavellian games of debauchery and seduction.

11. After the deluge: adaptation of a famous (if apocryphal) Louis XV quotation: _"Après moi le déluge" _(after me the deluge).

12. Better to reign in hell: Milton's _Paradise Lost. _"Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven."

13. Babylon: the pagan land of exile in the Old Testament.

14. Lotus eater: Homer's _The Odyssey. _The lotus-eaters were inhabitants of an island who fed on the narcotic fruit. Associated with sleep and dream-state.

15. Secret and divine signs: Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass, _"Among the Multitude." "Among the men and women, the multitude,/I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,/Acknowledging none else… any nearer than I am;/Some are baffled—But that one is not—that one knows me."

16. Match in a crocus: Virginia Woolf, _Mrs. Dalloway, _in a passage describing the heroine's adolescent love for another woman."Only for a moment; but it was enough. It was a sudden revelation, a tinge like a blush when one tried to check and then, as it spread, one yielded to its expansion, and rushed to the farthest verge and there quivered and felt the world come closer, swollen with some astonishing significance, some pressure of rapture, which split its thin skin and gushed and poured with an extraordinary alleviation over the cracks and sores! Then, for that moment, she had seen an illumination; a match burning in a crocus; an inner meaning almost expressed. But the close withdrew; the hard softened. It was over — the moment."

17. Lady Lazarus: the title of a Sylvia Plath poem. "Dying/Is an art, like everything else,/I do it exceptionally well./I do it so it feels like hell./I do it so it feels real./I guess you could say I've a call."

18. Holy palmers' kiss: from a line of Juliet's in the Capulet ballroom scene in which Romeo and Juliet meet in the eponymous Shakespeare play. "[P]alm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."


	19. Donde la sed eterna sigue

(Author's Note: Well, dear readers, this is the penultimate chapter. Pas de Deux Chapter 19 is next, followed by the two final chapters, which I'll release simultaneously.

Thanks to JJ, who always encourages me in the early stages and helps me with the tricky little questions that make all the difference. And a huge thank you to terriblemuriel - go check out her new fic, Zen and the Art of Relationship Maintenance, by the way; I've seen drafts of what lies ahead and it's well worth getting hooked - for her help, and her tireless patience with an alpha who's a little too precious about keeping her baby toes.

Speaking of terriblemuriel's new fic - funny anecdote: a scene in this chapter is coincidentally similar in theme and tone to a scene in hers, and we found a number of bizarrely specific parallels in sections written on the same day and around the same time. Seems we are developing alpha-beta hivemind.

Until the final chapter, my friends.)

* * *

><p>When Britt's mom cracks down on her sneaking out every night, you begin to climb up the tree and sneak in through her window. You used to do it all the time in middle school; these nighttime visits have gotten less frequent these past few years, but you've climbed up a handful of times, deep in the night, to feel her soft hands soothe your skin when it burned from the fresh tracks of a boy's hands. It was desperate those nights. Fevered. Now it seems—can you say this with a straight face?—ridiculously romantic.<p>

Same ritual, new bed. Your looking gets longer and longer. The way Brittany looks into your eyes—the way you look into hers—made you nervous at first. Now, it's natural—but not ordinary. It will never be ordinary, the way she switches a light on inside you and wanders the rooms of you, brushing everything with her fingertips just as she likes to every time she goes somewhere new: mapping the space, the topography, the flora. With you, she's not mapping; she knows her way already. She's simply exploring—because it's you.

And you? You let go. You fall in, headlong, and it's beautiful and terrible in the most delicious way. Like you're drunk—or on the precipice of climax. This is the only thing happening—just this, here—and you forget stupid things like before and after and the world beyond the confines of this bed.

Now every time, at the end, Britt leans in and slides her hands from your cheeks to your hair. She whispers, Santana, I'm going to kiss you. And then she does. The simplest, lightest kiss—like your dream-kisses in the night so long ago—and if you keep your eyes open she rewards you with a second soft kiss on your bottom lip.

You sneak out in the mornings before Brittany's parents wake up. Walking took too long the first time—you had to take a shower at warp speed and put on your mascara in the car at stoplights on the way to school—so you ride your old bike over now and lean it against the back wall. You used to love riding around the neighborhood with Brittany—back before you cared about things like scuffing your shoes or mussing your hair. Back when it felt like freedom.

It feels like freedom again, now, to ride alone. The bite of the night air, cut by your jacket and the anticipation of Brittany's warmth. Sluicing through the cold morning light, soothed by the tingling of your lips from a fresh parting kiss on Britt's temple as she slept.

This morning, you awaken to find Brittany's fingers still woven into your hair. Her mouth is slightly open, pink as a shell; that spot on her throat pulses slow and even with the heartbeat that vibrates her ribs where your hand rests. She sleeps with a sort of unshakable animal peace. You linger on the little things you can only see when she's sleeping: the honey-colored roots of her eyelashes, the tiny freckle just at the bridge of her nose, the turquoise vein that glows just above her temple like a shaded lamp. Stilling your breath, you listen to hers. Its rhythm interweaves with her heartbeat. You stay like that, stroking a rib delicately with your thumb, for a little too long—you can't stop watching her.

Sure, this whole feelings thing may hurt like a bitch—but letting yourself get mushy over watching Brittany sleep is one of the perks of admitting you're head over heels in love.

You tear yourself away from her long enough to check the time on your phone. Shit. You're going to be late to school.

Hey, Britt. You shake her awake. She groans. Britt-Britt, you coax. Time to wake up. We're gonna be late. I don't have time to go home so you have to drive.

Instead of opening her eyes, she pulls you in closer—by the small of your back. Not fair. Now you're the one who groans. Brittany smiles, eyes still shut, and you feel yourself getting wet from the way she skates her fingernails over your sleep shirt.

Britt, stop that. You bite back a moan.

Her fingers still and spread so her palm rests against your back. She scores her bottom lip with her teeth and scrunches her nose as she draws in a long breath. You feel her body stretching against yours—which does nothing for the frustration that's lodged itself inside you and is going to stick all day. Damn it, Britt.

Okay, she drawls at last, stretching out the final syllable as long as her body. She kisses your cheek, oblivious to your predicament, and rolls herself to the edge of her bed. You uncurl yourself to do the same.

I've got a dress of yours that you left over a while ago, she says, bounding up and springing to her closet. Hope you don't mind, I wore it a couple of times. But I washed it.

The thing about Britt is, she's hell to get awake, but once she's out of bed—at least, when the sun's up—she's chirpier than anyone has a right to be in the morning. She riffles through her hangers and drawers before tossing you the dress and a clean pair of her own underwear.

Your favorites, she notes, nodding toward the panties. And you do love these: blue, cotton, with little white whales all over. That is—you love them on her.

While she turns back to her closet to perform her own quick-change, you secretly bring first the panties, then the dress, to your nose and pull their scent in. They both smell like her laundry soap, and that unidentifiable Brittany smell that soaks into everything she wears.

After you slip on the dress and panties and pull your hair back into a ponytail—no time to wash it—that soapy Brittany smell radiates like a nimbus as the clothes warm against your body. The smell makes you shiver.

Today's going to be a long day.

* * *

><p>That Jesse kid really is an epic douche. He's the male equivalent of Berry.<p>

But when he says there will be auditions for the solo at Nationals, your heart leaps. Suddenly you want that solo more than anything—well, anything except Britt.

You're the first to sign up. It kind of makes you queasy to see your name right at the top of the list. Maybe you're turning into Berry after all.

But learning not to give a shit has to start somewhere, right?

San, I'm really proud of you, says Britt, later that afternoon. The two of you have changed up your routine a little. She's over at your house tonight, sitting on your bed as you play a few contenders for her over the sweet new speakers your dad bought you last month.

Why?

She shrugs. Because you're going for something you want and you don't care who knows it.

Grinning like a sphinx, she leans back to rest on her hands. Her knees drift apart a little naturally—shit, your body is still humming on low from this morning and she just cranked up the burner—as she deliberates over your potential audition piece.

I think… the Amy Winehouse, she concludes. Your voice sounds super sexy on that one. She stands up and stalks up to you like a tigress; her arms twine around your waist, and you beg yourself to keep it together. But it's been so long. She has to know she's torturing you.

Britt, you whine, and bite your lip hard to distract from the way her finger traces your spine. She grins. She sure does know—that bitch.

Sorry, she whispers, and lets her hands drop to her sides. Your eyes flutter to a close as she kisses your cheek—an inch from the corner of your mouth. Can I come to the audition?

I don't think so. You shrug. Sorry, Britt. I think it's just the other people auditioning who get to sit in.

Well—she grins again in that conspiratorial sexy way, and you feel another twinge, damn it—how about a private performance? She sits back on the edge of your bed and resumes that totally unladylike position. I mean, you need to practice, don't you?

A couple of practice runs later—Brittany gives you a few suggestions on how to use the stage space—you sit down next to her on the bed and lean your head on her shoulder. She takes your hand and traces figure eights into your palm.

Sexual frustration totally sounds good on you, she quips.

Ugh. Tease. You clamp down on her shoulder with your teeth—hard. She gasps and tries to pretend it was the start of a giggle.

Tonight, after you finish your looking ritual, she kisses you without warning. The kiss is not chaste or gentle. You can almost taste it on her: the tactile mirror of your own frustration. You moan into her mouth as her tongue parts your lips.

Once you're both panting and flushed, Brittany breaks off the kiss. She strokes your cheek with her thumb: a conciliatory gesture.

Soon, she promises.

When you're ready, you assure her. But she shakes her head.

No, she corrects you. When you are.

You're not sure what that means—but you suspect you're not supposed to ask. Instead, you look for the answer in her eyes. She smiles and answers the question that must be scrawled all over your face.

When you understand, she says cryptically, I'll know you're ready.

* * *

><p>You audition first. Just like the order on the sheet.<p>

Britt's right, as much as you hate to admit it: sexual frustration sounds really fucking good on you. It lends the sound keenness, edge, depth. The rumble, deep in your bones, of fundamental pitch. The sound really does seep from your bones. Amy, Alanis and Billie, after all, were your holy trinity during what you've come to think of as the Dark Month.

You wish Brittany could have seen you—you sing to her as if she could hear.

Then Jesse St Douche has the nerve to tell you that you didn't tap into the emotional truth of the song? Bullshit. He just has an epic hard on for Berry. You look back at Mr. Schue for help, but he's not looking at you anymore—just glaring at Jesse.

Useless.

The other auditions are good. Really good. But no one must be getting laid—not even Kurt—because you can't stop bitching at each other.

If only Britt could be here, she'd play with your hands. She'd find those half-dozen little places that dampen your anger as fast as turning a dimming dial. She'd skate her fingernails over your wrists and make you shudder and forget what day of the week it is.

After Berry belts out her number—damn her talent—Mr. Schue tells the four of you that you'll have to wait until Friday to hear who gets the solo. You roll your eyes and head toward the hallway to find Brittany.

To your surprise, she's leaning against the dark wall, just next to the door.

Britt? What are you doing here?

She touches your cheek to quiet you. Then, lowering her hand, she waits for the others to leave. Kurt and Mercedes nod at Britt in greeting as they pass; she nods back. Once they're gone, she grins and leans in close.

I was watching, she whispers, so close and soft her words are mostly breath.

From where?

The catwalk. She nods upward and shrugs.

You look at the flimsy excuse for scaffolding that probably hasn't been renovated to conform to code in a good twenty years. Your heart races with belated fear for her.

How the hell did you get up there? you hiss. That can't be safe.

San. She laces her fingers around your wrists like twin bracelets. It's okay. I have connections in the AV club. She winks; you relax your hands into her sliding touch as she presses your palms together between her own. You take a deep breath. It's like all of your anger and nerves and tension are seeping right through your feet into the carpet as Brittany's hands brace yours.

So… you were watching, huh? You let yourself smile. What did you think?

Brittany's eyes follow Jesse and Will up the steps, over the stage and into the wings.

I think if they don't pick you, they're the stupidest men alive.

You almost kiss her right then and there.

* * *

><p>Before your looking ritual that night, you help Brittany study for her Spanish final, which you're taking early, thanks to Nationals. As you sit across from her on the bed and quiz her on a fat stack of vocabulary index cards—you made them for her yourself during class last week, while everyone else struggled to conjugate conditionals—you correct her pronunciation. Even though neither of you know it doesn't matter, since Mr. Schue's got no room to correct anyone's accent, it's a nice excuse to watch her mouth and touch her lips. You're not going to lie: your demonstrations of tongue positions are a little more—pyrotechnic—than they need to be. Britt bites her lip as she watches.<p>

See, the T sound in English? Kind of like this. The tip of your tongue strikes the roof of your mouth. T. T.

She follows your lead. T. She nods.

In Spanish, it's… well, you have to show a little tongue. You wink, and Britt blushes. A sliver of tongue perches delicately beneath your top teeth. You show her in soft little puffs.

Thhh, she hisses, tongue slipping out like a snake's. You laugh.

Not quite. You show her again, leaning closer. It's kind of between T and Th. Your breath pulses. Then, in a flash, you see her finger dart to your mouth, slipping over your lips and teeth and sliding along the tip of your tongue.

Do it again, she directs. I mean, to show me how.

You strike the sound with your tongue twice, tasting the salt of her fingertip. Her breath is swelling and speeding visibly in her chest, and it's a pretty safe bet you're not going to get any more Spanish done tonight.

She gasps as you draw her finger into your mouth to the first knuckle. Your tongue slides over the tip, unhurried, and the corners of your mouth lift around her finger as her eyes struggle not to flutter closed.

Then she replaces her finger with her lips, and the flash cards drop and scatter on the bed, and she straddles you, her hips fitting naturally over yours like the right lid to a Tupperware container. You hold each other upright as her tongue snakes around yours—reminding you of how much linguistic talent Britt really has. Her hands play with the hem of your shirt.

Wait. No. Got to take it slow.

You whine into her lips as you lift her hands away, swaying and reeling like your body is fighting with itself—which it is.

Britt, you ask her, am I ready?

She frowns at you for a moment. Then, as comprehension dawns, she flashes you a soft—but deep—smile.

What do you think? she asks.

You look into her eyes. Something shivers in you.

I don't think so, you admit. I don't think I understand yet.

She kisses both corners of your mouth, then both of your eyelids, and every single one of your knuckles, like she can't quite pull away. You're both grinning like the love-drunk idiots you are, although you don't know what's so thrilling about choosing not to get laid.

Ugh—I'm my own cockblock, you groan as Britt slides reluctantly off your lap. She laughs, smoothing down her hair and shirt with her antsy hands.

I'm proud of you, she says.

You keep saying that. Frustration splits and rasps your voice.

She shrugs. Well, I mean it.

Soon, you say, taking her hand. It's a question and an answer.

Soon, she echoes, and nuzzles her cheek against your upturned palm.

* * *

><p>Of course Schuester doesn't give the solo to anyone. Something about being together as a team, whatever. For a second you want to punch—something or someone. But then you turn to Brittany and see she's smiling at you, and all of a sudden you're strangely okay with this. It doesn't matter anymore. Maybe—you return Brittany's grin with a quick one of your own—maybe it never mattered. Maybe this solo was never the thing you really wanted.<p>

Still—it kills you how happy you are to get a compliment from Berry. Must only be the fact that she almost never compliments anyone but herself. Anyway, you'll never admit it.

Are you okay? Britt asks you outside the choir room.

Yeah. Weirdly enough. You zip up your backpack after sliding in the rhyming dictionary.

She smiles. Really?

Yeah, you say sincerely. Really. And you're not lying—you actually are.

Her eyes flash like she wants to kiss you. She settles for slipping her pinkie into yours.

Will I see you tonight? you ask her, swinging your linked hands as you walk out the double doors and into the light.

Come over early. My parents are gone overnight to take my sister to her soccer tournament. She winks. Your body shudders with an answering twinge.

Sure, you say. I'll bring the chocolate chips.

* * *

><p>Ever since the eighth grade—the first time Brittany's parents trusted the two of you home alone overnight—it's been your tradition to make a huge stack of chocolate chip pancakes for dinner, swimming in syrup and butter. You know you probably shouldn't be eating these, but it's not like Coach Sylvester can guilt you about it anymore, and these pancakes make Brittany crazy-kid-happy. Something you can never say no to.<p>

Tonight, as you flip the newest pancake onto the stack and pop a broken edge into your mouth—with Brittany looking on from her perch on the island counter—the familiar smell of heated butter and toasted chocolate floods you with memories of your… other tradition when Brittany's parents are out of town.

It's like Britt can sense your body churning with want. You feel—rather than hear—her slip off the counter and pad over to you. The way she wraps her arms around your waist and rests her chin on the curve between your neck and shoulder is making it very hard not to burn this pancake. You flip it a little too hard; batter spits over the rim.

Let's make this the last one, she says into your hair, and kisses the back of your neck.

The two of you eat your pancakes in the den—you on the couch; Britt on the ground, cushioned by a couch pillow, between your knees—and watch Finding Nemo for what must be the millionth time. By the time her pancakes are gone, she's drenched in syrup: all over her face and hands, like a toddler.

Britt, you're a mess. You laugh.

Yeah, I know. She licks her fingers clean—you watch her tongue work the curves of her fingers and knuckles—and then she leans her head against your knee. It feels nice. The whole thing is just nice. Easy.

You finish your pancakes not long after and, since your hands are much cleaner than Britt's, you begin to play with her hair. She twists her head from side to side now and then to accommodate your fingers. You've always loved stroking Brittany's hair: flaxen and pale, the opposite of your own. As you let it run through the webbing of your fingers, comb out the strands like coils of silk, you can smell the warmth of it: sweet and floral. She washed it this morning. You can tell by the way it feels.

When the credits begin to roll, Brittany kisses your knee and pulls herself up to the couch, settling between your thighs. You can feel the divot of her spine press against your breasts and belly—and her hips pushing lower. She pivots her head, hooks your hair behind your ear, and trails soft kisses from your cheekbone to your lips. The kiss begins slow and sweet—her mouth tastes like syrup and chocolate—and heats little by little, until you have to pull away for a deep breath.

You're delicious, she whispers against your lips.

Mhm. You too.

Want to go upstairs?

You try to remind your body that she doesn't mean, well, that kind of upstairs. But your body won't listen. Everything is wiped from your mind—everything except Brittany: how warm she smells and how soft her hair feels between your fingers and how sweet her mouth tastes. She tugs your hand, and you follow, helplessly.

* * *

><p>After stumbling into her room, you feel strangely nervous—god, why are you nervous?—as she pulls you onto her bed, on top of her, and kisses you until you're drunk and dizzy. All you can think of at this second is how goddamned much you love her, and what an idiot you are for ever thinking this—your body pressed to her body, your heart pressed to her heart—could be anything but right and perfect.<p>

It's then—that moment exactly—when you understand.

Britt. You lift her face and look full into her eyes. They're darker than water at nighttime. Britt, I want to try something.

Her throat shivers as she swallows. What is it, San?

I want—to look into your eyes.

Okay. Do you want to roll over on our sides?

You shake your head. I don't mean—the way we've been doing. I mean, I want to see you.

Her brow knits. She tilts her head. Your cheeks flush; you didn't want to have to say it, but she's giving you no choice.

Brittany, I—I'm ready. I want to… to make love to you. And I want to look into your eyes.

You want to feel embarrassed at how pathetic you would sound, if anyone else could hear you. But you don't feel embarrassed—just vulnerable, and so anxious for her reply that your throat clogs with tears.

Brittany's face, still hovering over you, unravels. Her eyes gloss; she bites her lip, and she strokes your cheek with the back of her fingers over and over and over.

Yes, she finally whispers. Yes.

She lets you roll her onto her back. With her hair spread out behind her, she looks like a mermaid with curls haloed in water. Your shadow obscures part of her; a pale crescent emerges like a waxing moon. You tilt your head so her face is in full light.

God, you're beautiful, you whisper, touching her lips. She answers by kissing your fingertip.

Her skin, clammy from the heat, feels like damp silk. You stroke every strip of unclothed skin and follow your fingers with your lips. Brittany breathes deeply and evenly; you flick your eyes frequently back up to hers, which never stray from your face. You worship her neck, her throat, her collarbone, her shoulders. The insides of her wrists and elbows and under her arms. The backs of her knees. Her pulse. Her salt. Her perfume. She's perfect.

Sitting her up, you pull her shirt carefully over her head and unhook her bra. She submits to you, lifting and lowering her arms, arching her back. She lifts her hips so you can wiggle off her skirt and panties. Then she undresses you with the same slow care, kissing you after she removes each article.

The last time you were naked together like this was in the spring. That prelapsarian night: the night before she spoke those words that would unravel your whole universe. You can never stitch that old cosmos back together so neatly and ruthlessly. Tonight—just tonight—you're grateful for that.

You place a hand on her chest, and she lies back with her arms curved over her head. You can't shake the feeling that somehow—despite the heartbreak and lies of the past, despite the vertigo-inducing uncertainty of the future—in this moment, she belongs to you.

You stroke her breasts, trace the shallow suture of her abdomen, draw curving lines up her sides. Your eyes remain on hers: your hands know her body by heart; they learned in the darkness. At first it's strange to join the two—the old touching with the new looking—but the two sensations link faster and stronger than you could have imagined. It's like pumping up the electric charge that joins the two of you in a circuit.

Touch me, she whispers. She opens her body to you as your hand slides obediently to her hipbone, dipping into the hollow and following its channel until her mouth shutters. You can actually watch her eyes grow darker, swallowed by pupil, as if you've just dimmed the lights. Touch me, Santana.

The moment your fingers slip between her legs, she sighs and struggles to keep her eyes open. Your heart is even louder than her voiced breaths as you begin your slow circles—the way that will fill her gradually, so that when she tips over the pleasure will pour out in deep gorgeous waves. It's your favorite way to touch her.

Brittany's eyes grow viscous and contented. One arm remains curved behind her head; the other lifts to stroke your hair back.

You feel so good, baby, she encourages you, and the word baby on her lips surges straight to your heart. You're grinning like the world's biggest idiot and you don't even care.

God, what is this? You had no idea it could be like this. All this time, you were wearing blinders. You were keeping yourself wrapped in shadow. Now you've shed everything, see everything, and it could not be more beautiful. She could not be more beautiful: this girl who shared your childhood and your first kiss. Your best friend. Your first and only love.

Brittany's fingers trace lazy curlicues over your skin. She's not trying to keep you close; she knows exactly where you are, and she knows you'll stay. Her hips roll gently against your hand, work with you, following the pace you set with no protest.

When you see her body begin to flush, you slide two fingers slowly inside her. She answers with a little cry; her eyes flash as if registering an internal image. You're imprinting something of yourself in her: you're curling, contented, deep in her body. The heel of your hand takes over the work of your fingertips—keeping the same slow rhythm—until the hands that traced patterns on your shoulders suddenly cradle your head and mesh with your hair.

Stay, she whispers. Stay here. Don't leave me.

I will never leave you, you whisper.

And then she lets herself fall, with a shudder and a cry; her eyes pull you in even deeper than her body pulls in your fingers as you move with her, hold her, protect her. Your heart beats in your throat. It's like she's peeled something back, like if you touched her the wrong way you could kill her.

Santana, she whispers, and it's like the first time all over again, when you were initiates: your name on her lips a mantra, a prayer.

You kiss and kiss and kiss her then, your fingers still inside her, until she rolls you on your back to straddle you. She touches your wrist; as you pull out, she sighs and smiles.

That was… you trail off; your words can't come near this holy thing you've uncovered.

I know.

Her hands glide over your sweaty skin—exploratory at first, reacquainting herself, and then firmer, with purpose. She licks her thumb to stroke your nipples stiff; she skates her nails over that strip on your side—just below your ribs—that makes you moan. Your heart is wild and uneven as she climbs between your legs and you watch her watching you. Little by little, as her hand wanders over your waist to the trough between belly and hip, fear seizes you. You stiffen beneath her.

San. Her hand flies from your hip to your cheek; she strokes your cheekbone with her thumb. What's wrong?

I—I don't know. I don't know if I can do this.

Shh. Yes you can. She wraps your arms, one, then the other, around her neck. Hold on to me. I'll keep you safe. You'll see—it's easy.

You seal the ring of your arms around her shoulders. Your belly is stretched and open in animal surrender as her hands pass over it—and beneath your hip.

Stay with me, Santana.

You keep your eyes on her sure, clear ones as she seals her fingers between your thighs and begins to touch you.

It's the safest—and the most terrified—that you've ever felt.

Her eyes seem to shift focus, inward, then outward: she looks at you like she can't believe you're letting her do this. Like she's been waiting forever. She looks at you to make sure you're still all right, still with her.

She looks. She looks at you. She looks into you.

You're reaching the threshold too fast; you whimper, and, feeling you so close, she stills her fingers.

Do you want me inside you? she asks. You nod. She sinks her fingers in slowly; her mouth blooms as if it were your fingers descending into the quick of her again. You want that again now—the safety of touching her—but you know where your arms belong at the moment: holding on to your only anchor, who pins you to the bed with her eyes.

Now you're shivering, shivering like your back is bedded in snow instead of Brittany's sheets.

Let go, baby, she tells you. It's okay. I've got you. Let go.

You feel a cry empty your lungs as you free your body. You're plunging, sinking, and the only thing holding you is Brittany. She's a deluge; she's air; she's the darkness below and the sunlight piercing the waves.

After you return to the surface and she pulls you back, panting, to the warm shore of her bed, she covers your face in dozens of kisses.

You did great, she whispers, withdrawing her fingers. She cups your face and drinks deep from your mouth. Oh, San, she whispers against your lips, you were incredible.

You hold her hard against you, detaching your joined arms from their perch on her shoulders and lacing them around her waist. You rise and sink in unison, in waves—not to stir desire; simply because Brittany is there, bare and soft and slick against you. For a few more hours, you are hers, and you are safe. You long to disintegrate the border between her body and your body, between this night and the cold inevitable morning.


	20. I stop somewhere waiting for you

(Author's Note: We've arrived at the finale. I owe a debt of gratitude to many people who have helped me through this story as well as its companion, Pas de Deux.

First and foremost: to my faithful beta, terriblemuriel—who, since she joined the team around Chapter 15 of this fic, has helped me out of more than a few tight spots; who grants me my fierce, lionesque writerly independence while still pushing me to be braver, and to not avoid the hard scenes just because they're harder to make pretty. It's in large part thanks to her that the later chapters of both fics are significantly longer.

To JJ at themostrandomfandom, whose insight blows me away, and whose encouragement never failed to drive me forward.

To Tess at venuscomb, who inspires me, and who had the kindness to look over a few fresh scenes to make sure I was on the right track.

To Roch at gleerant, whose brilliance is inspiring and informing, and who graciously loaned me her New-York-savvy eyes for these chapters to ensure that the NYC portions felt real.

To my other Brittana U colleagues, who have influenced this in ways they can't possibly imagine.

And of course, to my wonderful readers, reviewers and friends in the Brittana community. Without your encouragement, right from the beginning, I might not have gotten past chapter 5 of TOTP.

I love you all. Enjoy.)

* * *

><p>Nobody knows this—well, except Brittany—but you've been to New York before. Twice. The second time, the summer you were thirteen, you and Britt were already best friends. That was the year your father broke down and gave you a cell phone; you called Brittany every night, shivering on the fire escape of your aunt and uncle's apartment, and wasted half your trip being homesick for her.<p>

Two nights before you're supposed to leave, your mother comes into your room while you're packing and shuts the door.

Santana, where are you going every night?

Your heart jumps. You didn't think she even noticed you were gone.

Britt's, you tell her. No point in lying. You tuck a freshly folded dress into the corner of your suitcase.

She sits down at the edge of your bed and you try to make yourself look busy.

So, that nice boy, Dave?

Your face burns. You shake out a folded shirt and collapse it along the same creases.

We're not seeing each other.

Oh. That's too bad. I liked him.

You don't respond. Your mother shifts; you sense her movement the way a rabbit senses a fox.

Mija, she says, after a minute, you're starting to make it hard for me to keep this from your father.

Your stomach clenches. That'd be one sure way to get his attention.

When you were nine and living in Cleveland, you overheard your parents having a fight downstairs and watched them froth at one another from between the bars of the stair railings. Your father's cousin and his friend—your mother stressed the word friend as if she meant something very different—had invited you to spend a couple of weeks with them in their house in Florida.

I don't get what your problem is, your mother argued. Santana would have a good time. She'll love the beach.

No. I don't want her around—that kind of thing.

Don't be like that. They're nice men. Just because you—

Elena, do you want our daughter to think that's—normal? That it's okay?

Your mother backed down eventually—she always does—and instead of going to Florida, your parents shipped you off to stay with your father's older sister, who has two daughters around your age.

That was the first time you went to New York.

Your mother clears her throat, and you realize you've stopped packing.

Do you need anything? she asks, awkwardly, rising from your bed and smoothing down the sheets. For your trip, I mean?

No. I'm good. You rummage around in your suitcase as if you're looking for something, even though you both know there's nothing to look for.

Okay. Let me know. She walks out, swinging the door shut behind her, but stops a few inches short and peeks back in. And—Santana? Not so many sleepovers at Brittany's, all right? She sighs. Don't make this any harder than it has to be.

* * *

><p>You've been to New York twice. But this time will be different. This time, you'll be in New York—in love.<p>

And you've made a promise to yourself, a promise that makes you nervous just to think about it. Something you decided the morning after you and Brittany made love.

The two of you lay in her bed, drenched in fresh sunlight, when she'd asked you a question you weren't ready for.

Do you think maybe we could—she hesitated, and her heartbeat drummed against your bare skin—you know, try out—us—in New York?

Your heartbeat sped to match hers as your courage failed you, and—again—you failed her. You begged her to let the night before be enough. You begged her, again, for more time. Her face collapsed with the same old heartbreak, and after she tucked herself, hiding, back into you, you kissed the crown of her head. I'm sorry, you whispered into her hair. I'm sorry.

Then you ran to the shower to wash away your shame. Over the sound of the rushing water, you heard the bathroom door open and close. Brittany stepped into the shower with you and shunted the curtain shut. Without a word, she squeezed a pool of shampoo into her palm, rubbed her hands together, and worked the foam deep into your hair, down to the roots. Rinsed you clean. Cupped your face.

Before you could stop yourself, you broke. You couldn't tell the difference between your tears and the hot water from the tap as both ran down your cheeks, but Brittany brushed away a few drops with her thumbs with certainty, as though she could tell them apart.

San, it's okay, she said. Shh. It's okay. I understand. I forgive you. She kissed your cheek and pressed her thumb to the spot, as if to keep the kiss from washing away.

Tell her you love her, you thought. Tell her, damn it.

Instead, you kissed her softly, turned her underneath the spray so her hair bronzed with water, filled your palm with shampoo, and began to wash her.

And as she seized your hands, the moment you'd lowered them from her hair, you made yourself a promise.

Once, in New York—in public—you are going to hold Brittany's hand.

* * *

><p>It's Brittany's first flight, and you reassure her, your thumb tracing spirals into her palm under the airplane blanket. She stares out her window onto the tarmac, watching the ground crew toss suitcases onto the conveyor belt.<p>

I'm not scared, she says, just a little nervous.

It's okay, Britt-Britt, you tell her. It's fun. You'll like it. You can see everything from above, like a bird. Even the clouds.

Yeah, she says, her eyes drifting back to the tarmac.

When the plane begins to taxi, she grabs your hand; as you speed up in preparation for takeoff, she squeezes it hard.

This is the hardest part, you whisper. After this? Super easy.

She nods and closes her eyes as the wheels leave the ground.

Watch, you urge her. Watch everything shrink. You're leaving Ohio.

She opens one eye and glances out the window.

Wow, she says. Those cars look like toys. Her grip on your hand slackens, though she keeps hers folded into yours.

You tell her to look again once you've lifted above and beyond the city, where daylight is just beginning to filter into the sky: at the blocks of farmland like little quilt squares. Then again when you pierce the clouds.

Ooh, she says. It's like a fairyland of ice. Like angel pillows.

Mhm. That's right.

It doesn't take long before you reach altitude and can break out your iPod. You slip one earbud into your own ear and the other into Britt's. Then you crank up the playlist you made for this flight, lean back, and smile at her.

We're going to New York, you remind her. In a few hours, we're going to be in New York City.

As you cross the bridge from the airport in your shuttle bus, packed like rows of crayons, and slip between the rows of skyscrapers, those small-town bumpkins look like their eyes are going to pop out of their heads.

You can't even see the top of the buildings, marvels Finn.

You're rolling your eyes until you see that Brittany's nose is pressed to the window. Her breath clouds the glass.

San, look, she says, tugging your sleeve.

Look at what?

Everything. Her voice is silvered with awe.

Suddenly it doesn't seem so naïve to be amazed by New York.

Yeah, pretty cool, you concede.

* * *

><p>Soon enough, you're all settled in and writing songs, which you think is ridiculous—you should have started writing them a long time ago instead of sitting in this stupid cramped hotel room while Mr. Schue is off doing god knows what.<p>

You may have brought in your purse a little scrap of lyrics, just a verse, that you wrote the night before you left, but you're sure as hell not going to pull it out now. No freaking way.

It's too bad your cousins are out of town. You could have called them up and played hooky with Britt for an hour or two, just long enough that no one would notice. But it's not long until everyone gets cabin fever and creates enough nervous energy to blow out the walls.

Once you're on the street, it's clear that none of these hicks has a shit clue how to read a map. While you're not going to give yourself away and play tour guide—that's just not you—you do lead a little, pointing them in the right direction and loading your helpless caravan onto the subway, and suggest a few spots to explore.

Much as you hate to admit it, you actually have a decent amount of fun. Maybe because Brittany is casting little grins at you the whole time. She likes it when you act like a leader.

To be honest? You kind of like it too.

* * *

><p>After hours of fruitless songwriting, you're all getting pretty punchy from fatigue and frustration. So when Britt starts a pillow fight, all the girls except for Berry—rapt in concentration—leap in. You bat the holy hell out of everyone, down flying from the seams, until Britt grabs you by the wrist, swipes a card key from the bedside table and leads you into the hallway.<p>

Had to distract them somehow, she says, shrugging.

You bite your lip and glance around, wondering if you can steal a quick kiss, when Brittany pulls a familiar sheet of folded notebook paper from her pocket. Your whole body flushes in embarrassment.

Where did you get that? you demand, trying to flatten the shiver out of your voice.

Your purse. I was looking for gum.

You try to snatch it back from her, but she holds it back.

I read it. It's really good. You wrote this, right?

You're hot all over. You refuse to meet her eyes. That verse is about her, and you don't even know what you would do if the others found out.

I think you should show it to everyone, she says.

No.

She sighs, pockets the paper again, and traces her finger under your jaw, against that strip of skin that unravels you. Not fair.

Well, what if I said I wrote it? Would you let me show them?

You stay still. You're tempted. She sees the chink and grins.

You don't have to answer. Just say something right now if that's not okay with you, and I won't do it.

You scrape your bottom lip between your teeth and don't crack the silence. Your heart is thudding hard; you tell yourself there's nothing to be afraid of.

Brittany leans forward and kisses your brow.

They're going to love it, she assures you.

You sneak back in. Feathers are flying everywhere and the bashing is still going strong. Rachel's still scratching furiously, surrounded by her own scraps of paper. No one had noticed you two were gone.

That's a good sign.

* * *

><p>Britt's right. Everyone does love the song. You try not to be pleased—but you are. Even if no one will ever know it was you.<p>

I think we can build something around this, says Tina. Nice job, Brittany.

Thanks, she says. It just kind of… came to me. Like I found it somewhere. She shoots you a quick knowing glance, and you can't help but smile.

In the afternoon, as the others chip away at the setting—well, except for Finn and Rachel, who've gone MIA—you sneak into the bathroom with your notebook to review the handful of addresses and the little map you scribbled down before you left. Then you beckon to Britt, and she follows you down the hallway and the back stairs and into the cool sunlight.

Once you're out of the hotel, Britt trots after you and slips her pinkie into yours. Together you weave your path to your first destination. She can't stop looking at things and pointing them out—street vendors, weird shops, shiny buildings. Sleek ads and architecture. Theaters.

This is seriously so cool, San, she says. Everything is so close together. I bet you could fit everybody in Lima into, like, two of these buildings. She points to a couple of adjacent skyscrapers with mirrored windows.

You smile. Cities are nothing new to you. But maybe you're the one who's wrong here, you reflect, watching the joy on Britt's face. Brittany understands a lot of things you don't. The world is brighter and sweeter to her. You'd envy her that, if you didn't love it so much on her—like that sweater of yours that you gave her last year because it looked so pretty with her eyes. You'd do anything to protect that sweetness deep inside her; you'd cup it in your hands and shield it like a robin's egg.

First you take her to the Central Park Zoo. You pay for both tickets—Brittany blushes when you put your hand on hers and insist that she put away her wallet—and together you consult the map. She chooses the wildest animals, the ones you don't have at your zoo back home, and you weave your way among the exhibits, hardly seeing the animals thanks to your pathetic inability to turn your eyes away from Brittany's joy. How the hell did this happen? You, Santana Badass Lopez, are grosser than all of the gooiest couples in the history of Glee put together. You're a rag doll tucked under that girl's arm. Soft as an over-boiled potato.

Next stop is FAO. Schwarz. You haven't been since you were nine—before you got too proud and called it a place for babies—but you know Brittany is going to go nuts over it, especially that ridiculous giant piano on the second floor

Oh my god, she squeals, clapping, after you lead her to the platform. This is amazing. Can we play chopsticks? I'll take the top part—there are bigger jumps.

After wandering through the cases of block towers and elaborately dressed dolls, the menagerie of stuffed animals that Britt strokes in curiosity—wow, they look so real, San, she marvels—you buy her one of those big flat lollipops in the large candy section, the kind that has a million colors swirled into a perfect spiral.

Lima isn't exactly the capital of sushi, so you're a little nervous about taking her to that place your cousins took you to last time you visited. But you remember how alive you felt, tasting something so new and fresh and raw on your tongue—the rolls were cold and textured and subtle; the sashimi melted like butter in your mouth—and you want Brittany to share it. You snag two chairs at the sushi bar so she can watch the chefs at work with their quick knife-work and colorful palette. She's entranced, and—after some initial trepidation—trusts you to order. You do what your cousins did and order the chef's recommendation platter: it's a little of everything, and you sample it all together, slurping up the fancy rolls and scrunching up your noses at the raw octopus. Once Brittany masters the tricky chopstick technique—you rubber band them together the way your cousin Marta taught you over Chinese food when you were a kid—she can't help but click them at you, walk them like little legs, and proudly feed you pieces of rolls. You can't even bring yourself to be embarrassed—she's that freaking cute.

Once you've paid the bill and returned to the street, you steal a few licks of her lollipop as the two of you walk to Rockefeller Plaza. The sunlight and warmth has faded away by now, and you know you should probably return soon. Your heart is thudding so hard you have to swallow it back; it shakes in your ears like a subwoofer, loud as the blare of the taxi horns forming a constant, fractured, desperate rhythm in the waxing darkness.

Now or never.

Leaning over a balcony overlooking the fountain in Rockefeller Center, the two of you observe the bowl of swirling pedestrians below. Brittany's eyes drink it in, from the gold statue to the carefully manicured flora to the lines of the surrounding buildings, from the marquee of Radio City Music Hall to the distant top floors.

You brush the back of your hand against her wrist, and she loosens it from the balustrade hesitantly; she keeps her eyes ahead. Bolder, you slide your fingertips over the heel of her hand, into the creases of her palm—and then you take it firmly in yours, weaving your fingers together. She relaxes into you with a deep, satisfied sigh, though she doesn't look at you, and your joined hands fall and swing at your sides.

For a little while—maybe an hour, maybe a minute; it's impossible to tell—you just stand like that, her hand in yours. And then Brittany clears her throat.

Thank you for today, she says. I had an amazing time.

You smile. Me too.

Brittany falls silent for a moment, riddling her lip with her teeth. Then, she turns to you and tilts her head. You meet her eyes.

San? Can I ask you something?

Sure.

What is it that you're so afraid of?

Britt. Your hand slackens in hers, but she holds on tighter, her fingers fitting into the hollows between your bones.

Please, she begs, her voice tight.

You sigh. Your mind roils with a tempest of scenery and noise and sensation. The slap and sting of the slushie that stained your white sweater. Kurt's humiliation at the prom. Stares in the hallway. Whispers in the locker room. Knees bruising your back at the base of the Cheerios pyramid. The unimaginable pain of Brittany ripping your heart to shreds, choosing a boy over you. Your father spitting those words—that kind of thing—as though loving someone the way you love Brittany were something unspeakable.

Brittany is still looking. Waiting.

Your throat is tight as you try to speak. No sound comes out. You swallow and try again.

Some people aren't as open as you. They can be—cruel. They don't understand.

People like who?

People at school. My grandparents and aunts and uncles. You take a deep breath. My father.

Brittany considers this, sighs, squeezes your hand again.

I'm sorry, she says.

I just want people to respect me, you know? I mean, I'll settle for fear. But that, I can't lose. That's all I have. You pause for a moment. I'm not like you, Britt. I'm… not easy to love.

She looks so sad when you say that. Her eyes and mouth soften. With the hand not woven into yours, she strokes your cheek. You fight the urge to look around, to see who's watching. You keep your eyes locked to hers.

Oh, San, she whispers. Is that really how you feel?

You don't answer. Your gaze falls to your feet; you fight not to let your surging tears overtake you.

You asked me.

Yeah. I did.

Your hands cling together, warm and clammy, and your heart is still racing. But not a single passerby is giving you a second look.

With Brittany's eyes still searching yours, your thoughts churn and boil to surface that heart-ripping pain of Brittany's rejection.

Can I ask you a question now?

Of course.

Why did you choose him?

She sighs and looks away for the first time.

At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing.

And now?

She hesitates.

I don't know.

She doesn't know? Even after making love to you—after holding you, watching you, as you surrendered your whole self to her—she doesn't know whether she should have broken you into a million pieces? Your heart shatters all over again. Tears break over your cheeks. Britt reaches out to wipe them clean, but you push her hand away.

I mean, I don't know if it was the right thing for any of us, she amends. I know it was never the same with him as it is with you. I just—you broke my heart so many times, Santana. What could I do? She pauses, drawing in a deep breath, before she continues. I couldn't wait forever.

You're aching so hard all over that you begin to shake feverishly.

We should go back, you whisper.

Santana. Her voice is plaintive, broken.

Come on. It's late.

* * *

><p>When you get back to the room, you let her go in first. The other girls, exhausted, are already draped all over every soft surface, sound asleep.<p>

Prop the door open, you whisper. I'll be right back.

You pick the lock to the maid's closet with a bobby pin and ransack it for an armful of blankets and a couple of pillows.

Brittany's flipped the deadlock so you can come back in. You push the door open with your foot. She's scoping out the room for a bare patch, rubbing her neck: the other girls have taken up all of the sleeping space.

Part of you wants to tell her, too bad—sleep on the floor. But then she looks at you, her eyes heavy, her bottom lip soft like a child's, and you just can't.

Grab a couple of shirts and meet me in the bathroom, you whisper. She nods and turns to your suitcases.

This bathtub is actually pretty roomy, you note, lining the cold bowl with a nest of blankets. As you fluff the pillows at the end opposite the faucet, Brittany comes in, closes the door carefully, and strokes the small of your back.

You're so smart, San, she breathes into the back of your neck. Here, turn around.

You succumb, heavy and slow, and she begins to undress you. She slides off your cardigan, hangs it on a hook beside the door, and shimmies off your dress. After unhooking and hanging your bra, she pulls a soft shirt over your head. Her shirt.

You sit on the edge of the tub and watch as she undresses herself, down to her cotton panties, unhurried and casual. You're surprised to see that the shirt she pulls on is one of yours. She sees you looking and offers you a little shrug.

It's my favorite, she explains. I wanted… something of yours. Is that okay?

How can she do this so easily to you? Make you feel like your heart is made of warm butter, dripping and clinging inside you?

Sure, Britt-Britt.

She kisses your cheek. Let's get into bed, she suggests, and crawls in first. She scoots her back against the far end and pats the empty space in front of her. Come here.

You fold yourself in—it's a tight fit, even for two thin girls—and let Britt pull you into her. You're hundreds of miles from your hometown, but here, cleaving to her body like an oyster to its shell, you're always home.

Brittany kisses the nape of your neck and rubs your belly.

I'm sorry about earlier, she says. I'm still here. I'm still waiting. You know that, right?

You close your eyes and let her nuzzle into your hair. Your heart throbs as she strokes the curl on your temple. There's something about New York—maybe just the way no one spared you a second glance, a second thought, when you held hands—that gives you an epiphany. So you make yourself one more promise.

You won't have to wait much longer, you tell her. I—I'll do it soon.

You feel her heartbeat swell and thump in unison with yours.

Do you really mean that?

Yes. By the end of the summer. I promise. You tilt your head, though not enough to meet her eyes. Can you wait that much longer?

Yeah, she sighs. I think I can wait that long.

Her lips drift—easy, leisurely, warm—over your ear, your neck, your hair. You feel electric and terrified and thrilled.

* * *

><p>When you awaken to the sound of water hitting ceramic in the sink, you realize with a start that you forgot to close the shower curtain.<p>

Shit.

Brittany stirs, hums, squeezes you tighter with the arm draped just below your breasts. Eyes still shut, you consider your options. Leap out of the tub? Too obvious—and would only cause a bigger stir. Try to pull the curtain shut around you, hoping the intruder will have the decency not to pull it back and take a look? Oh, who are you kidding—you'd totally open the curtain if it were you in her place. The only option left: stay still, keep your eyes shut, and wait.

The tap shuts off.

S—Santana? Brittany?

Fuck. It's Berry.

Brittany groans into your hair. She's a sound sleeper—still submerged in ignorant slumbering bliss. You, though, have no choice but to open your eyes. Rachel is leaning against the bathroom counter, trying not to stare at you; she glances at her feet as soon as your eyes meet her level.

Sorry, she whispers.

Sorry for what, Berry? you hiss, daring her to say another word.

An unreadable flicker crosses her brow.

I—nothing, she says.

You peel Brittany's arm from your ribs. She moans from the missing contact. An awkward, thick silence blooms.

We were—I just—there was nowhere else to go, you blurt, suddenly, struggling for an explanation for spooning another girl in a bathtub that doesn't involve the two of you being in love. It's like you can't shut up, even though you're only making this worse.

It's nothing, you insist, lamely. We were only…

Your voice trails off. Rachel clears her throat.

No. Of course, she says, softly and reassuringly. I'll just—go.

Rachel turns away and reaches for the door handle, but she stops just as her hand reaches the metal. She glances back toward you.

Everyone's still asleep, she says. You have some time. She bites her lip. And—Santana? Don't worry. I'm not going to tell anyone.

You almost snap, tell anyone what? You almost threaten her at pain of death to keep her mouth shut. You want to be angry, or annoyed. That's easy. But instead, you feel—dare you say it—grateful.

Thank you, you whisper.

And as she cracks open the door, as Brittany's arm slides back over your waist, you could swear you see Rachel Berry smile at you.

* * *

><p>You wake Brittany a few minutes later—you can't help watching her sleep a little while; even two nights apart from her were excruciating—and the two of you sneak out of the bathroom to lie down on opposite sides of the bed Rachel left vacant before the others wake up.<p>

After everyone showers and dresses, you all congregate in the boys' room to finish arranging and rehearsing the songs you wrote yesterday.

Then Finn's blathering on about how they should do the arrangement so that he and Rachel sing the entire opening song as a duet, because they're the gods of creation—and you realize from the deafening absence of voluminous shrill agreement that Rachel is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Kurt. Or Quinn.

You and Britt don't need to be here either. Not if all you're going to do is listen to Finn toot his own fucking horn all day about what a talented leader and performer he is, or watch the crossfire between him and Mercedes and Puck and whoever else over who should sing what. You wouldn't mind a little nap on a real bed—your back is a little sore from that cramped bathtub—or, for that matter, a little makeout session to relax.

One drifting mote of Brittany's fresh-shampooed smell, and your decision is made for you.

Meet me in our bathroom in five, you whisper into Brittany's hair, and mumble your excuses as you step over Mike's and Tina's knees.

You slip back into the empty room and jiggle the handle of the bathroom. Locked. No sound from the other side.

Brittany sweeps in to join you—a little early, no matter—and tries the door. Same result.

Suddenly, you both know who's in there.

Quinn, you yell, knocking again, quit hogging the bathroom. I needs to re-pencil my eyebrows on.

Then she streaks by you, a flash of blonde, and all of a sudden this becomes a confrontation. She wants to tell Mr. Schue that Rachel keeps sneaking off. You and Brittany exchange a glance—you two haven't exactly been sticking to curfew either. Shit. What's her angle?

You can't do that, says Brittany, echoing your panic. He'll have to suspend them.

Oh, and there go our chances at Nationals, says Quinn, oddly venomous. Darn.

Oh. So that's what this is about? Hell fucking no.

You know what? you volley, dry and merciless. We get it. You're pissed about Finn dumping your sweet ass. Get over it.

She flips a shit and charges at you.

I don't want to get over it, okay?

Brittany recoils; you step back up. You know how to handle this bitch. You've been handling her for three years.

The only person you're sabotaging here is yourself, you tell her bluntly.

I don't care about some stupid show choir competition, she shouts, frothing, so loud that Brittany literally steps back.

Well, you should, you rebut. This is the one chance that we have to actually feel good about ourselves.

Your heart sinks at your own words then. You didn't realize until they were out of your mouth how much you actually mean them.

At your accidental show of vulnerability, Quinn softens—melts. Surrenders.

Aren't we supposed to be the popular girls? she protests. She lists the other girls in Glee, the girls who have love, and looks to the two of you as if you're her allies. Her fellow sufferers. Alone, like her.

But you and Brittany catch eyes again—and all at once, Quinn sees it. She sees the two of you, in full light, unmistakably in love. You see it in the way she reels—certain, now, that she really is alone.

You're not even afraid of the fact that she knows about you and Britt—right now, it doesn't matter. Her face holds no trace of judgment—not even surprise. Just certainty, and the deepest, saddest loneliness you've ever seen.

It's then that you remember what Quinn has lost. That she's had her heart broken in a way you can't imagine. And your last tenacious little scrap of liking and friendship—of love, really—floats to the top of your heart. You and Brittany fall into a united front. Flanking Quinn, you sit together on the bed, the three of you, to share one instant of understanding what it is to have a broken heart.

I just want somebody to love me, she says, her voice cracked and smaller than you've ever heard. In that moment, you love Quinn Fabray more than you've ever loved her before.

It's you who suggests a haircut. Your aunt's advice to fix a broken heart. Brittany looks at you the same way she did yesterday, as the group launched a real song from your scrap of lyrics: with that admiration and pride that makes you feel—nearly—invincible.

Won't the others come looking for us? Quinn asks.

You huff derisively.

They've all got their heads so far up their asses they can't see who's there and who's not, you assure her. Seems like you're the only one who's been paying attention. You wink—you actually fucking wink—which coaxes a little smile from Quinn.

Okay, she says, taking a deep breath, let's do this.

* * *

><p>Brittany does the honors, since she's cut her little sister's hair before. She washes Quinn's hair while you run downstairs to get a pair of scissors from the front desk. The two of you sit Quinn down in the desk chair, wrap one of the extra blankets around her to keep the cuttings from falling into her clothes, and make a little nest for the falling hair out of the wet towels from this morning's round of showers. Housekeeping is not going to be happy with you, that's for damned sure.<p>

The trick, Brittany says, is to cut one line, neat and straight, all the way across, and then cut in layers at an angle.

As the first wet, dark gold curl falls to the floor, a tear rolls down Quinn's cheek. Brittany cuts in a line, slow and careful, revealing Quinn's neck. Pieces rain down, darkening the clouds of towel below, and you watch as the girl you've hated and loved so deeply and so long—the girl who is you, but weaker, and stronger; who has milder and crueler demons; who has known so much less loneliness and heartbreak, and so much more—watches one more part of herself fall away.

It's okay, you tell her, holding her cheek, holding her hand, holding her gaze, as Brittany combs out a silky row at an angle and makes a long, definitive snip. You'll be okay. We're going to be okay.

* * *

><p>Between all of your anxiety and excitement about being in New York with Brittany, you completely forgot to be nervous about the competition. But the moment you walk into that vast, vaulted hall and plunge into the anthill of competitors, you remember—fast. Why are there so many kids in show choirs anyway? It's like everybody in New Directions stepped into a hall of funhouse mirrors.<p>

There's no way we're going to win this thing, you whisper to Britt. Like, look at all of these people.

You don't know that, she says, mildly. She doesn't look nervous at all. Her eyes drink in the crowd, the merch tables, the clusters of girls, the costumes. Sometimes you wish you could be like Britt: worrying about the things that matter; letting the petty, secondary stuff go. You wish you could—but you can't.

The performances you watch are really good. Big leagues good. Ugh. Damn it—you're nervous. They gave you the first solo in the group number—the verse you wrote; it's almost like they sensed it—and even though it's little, it feels nothing like Valerie, which you and Mike and Britt rehearsed over and over until it was seamless. You just finished these songs this morning. Brittany and Mike choreographed it in under an hour, and you've only run through each of them twice. Under-rehearsed doesn't even begin to describe how badly prepared you are. Mr. Schue can say whatever he wants about being there for you now, but he sure as hell wasn't there when you needed him. You've got a knot in your throat the size of Texas.

A hand sweeps back your hair. Brittany's.

You okay, San?

Just nervous.

Don't worry. Whatever happens onstage—we're going to be fine.

You look at her, hard—at her beatific, unflappable smile—and you remind yourself over and over again to trust her.

* * *

><p>Before you learned what actually happened on that stage, you had two awful hints.<p>

The second hint was the thick, shocked silence after your first number, as all of you stood with your backs to the audience. You were frozen, imprisoned by choreography, and couldn't look. Instead, you just got a sick feeling in the pit of your belly as you thought of the thousands of eyes raking you over—of the vast hall of people who weren't cheering for you.

But the way Rachel and Finn were looking at each other just behind the curtain? That look of attraction so electric and so high-voltage that practically glows in the dark, that you can smell burning through their flesh? That was your first hint.

You're a performer. You nail your solo—and Brittany nails hers—because that's what you do. By then, the crowd is on your side, and some small part of you believes that you can still pull this off.

Then comes the whispering, the rumors about what made the crowd go quiet—and finally, the equally heavy silence that falls over all of you when Mr. Schue tells you that you didn't make the top ten.

What the hell do you think happened up there? you ask Britt as you all plod, defeated, back to the hotel.

You don't know yet? asks Britt. Jesse St. James wouldn't shut up about it back at the theater.

Wouldn't shut up about what?

Brittany opens her mouth, shuts it, and wets her lip.

Finn kissed Rachel onstage. It was—well, it got a little too intense.

You stop. Reel. Try to flush the blood out of your vision.

What the everloving fuck?

San. I know. Let's just get back to the hotel, okay?

You fall silent. Brittany rests a hand on your shoulder, but lets it drop after you don't lean into her touch. Finn is an idiot. You expect this shit from him. But Rachel? You thought she cared about this competition—about her talent—more than anything. You thought that it was one thing you could count on from her: that she wouldn't give up on what was most important to her. Rachel Fucking Berry—the last person you'd imagine—managed to fuck this up for everyone.

Hard to believe that just this morning, you were thanking her for keeping your secret. For keeping your love a secret—while she parades hers onstage, in front of a national audience.

Not fucking fair.

* * *

><p>Soon you're back to the hotel, packing up your things and getting ready to say goodbye to the city that made you forget your fear of jumping off that cold high cliff next fall—the city that made you remember why you're jumping in the first place.<p>

Five minutes in—max—all your frustration and shock and mourning finally boil over. The next thing you know your things are all scattered again and six hands are holding you back as you charge, screaming, at Rachel: the physical symbol of everything in the world that you hate at this very moment.

It's Quinn who finally calms you down. Quinn, who this morning was so ready to ruin everything over hating Rachel and Finn, hating them for having what she can't.

Santana, she snaps. We get it. Everyone's upset. But you have to calm down now.

You're already tired of straining against their grip, and you slacken in their arms until Quinn and Mike and Sam are supporting instead of restraining you.

Come on, Quinn whispers, draping her arm over your shoulder. Let's get you some water.

She shuts the two of you in the bathroom and fills up a glass from the tap. After drying off the base with a hand towel, she hands it to you.

Drink, she urges, and you take a little sip. Your cheeks are too hot, and you don't feel like drinking, so you just let it hang like an ornament from your hand as you lean back against the counter. Quinn joins you. The two of you stare straight ahead: at the tiles lining the back of the shower.

So now that's two of us who want to punch Rachel Berry, you joke. Quinn smiles politely but doesn't laugh.

Is this really just about Nationals? she asks.

You hesitate—and then shake your head.

Is this really just about Finn? you ask.

Quinn looks to the floor and shakes her head.

You know—you set down the glass, slide it back on the counter—I never thought Berry would whore out those dreams she's always yammering on about for some stupid… white picket fence.

I told her she didn't belong in Lima, says Quinn. I mean, she just… doesn't.

Do you?

Quinn bites her lip. She turns her face away from you.

You tuck a piece of her newly cut hair behind her ear. It escapes, falling back over her wet cheek.

I don't think so, you tell her. You deserve a lot more than you think you do.

And you deserve the white picket fence, she says. You can still have that, Santana, if you want to.

That hits you—deep—in a place you didn't expect. You imagine, for just a moment, some distant morning, scooting a stack of pancakes from a griddle onto Brittany's plate—turning then, maybe, to a third plate, or a fourth. But no. You don't really want that—do you?

Your own cheeks are wet now. So—maybe you do.

Quinn sniffs, turns to you with a wet chuckle.

Why haven't we ever—really—been friends?

Silence. You mull over the question.

Maybe we were thinking about it the wrong way, you guess. Like, when one of us won, that meant the other lost. Your eyes meet. We thought we wanted the same thing.

She slides her hand across the cold counter and over yours.

Now we know better.

* * *

><p>Now that you've freshly returned from New York City, Lima feels even more cramped and empty, and—well—smaller than before.<p>

You think Brittany may still be mad at you for what you did to Rachel. You cocooned yourself in self-pity the whole way home, which left no room for her, and then went home and crashed, sleeping until your alarm blasted you out of the void.

Your anger at Rachel doesn't burn out. It smolders, licks at something deep and painful in you. Why? Two years ago, she was nothing to you. A splattered bug on the windshield of your social success. You wouldn't have changed places with her any faster than you would have changed for an alley cat. Or a dental hygienist.

So why, now, are you longing for what she has? Why does her kindness to you in the hotel bathroom that morning rankle so painfully?

You're thinking about this at your locker, jabbing at a little voodoo doll you swiped from some creepy goth kid's open backpack on your last day of pre-calculus.

Hey, calls Brittany, coming toward you. You still pissed?

Do you think this voodoo doll looks enough like Rachel Berry to actually work?

Come on, she wheedles. You can't be mad at Rachel for forever.

Uh, yes, we can. You lean against your lockers in unison. How could you possibly be so calm? you ask her, your own voice shot through with frustration.

I don't know, she says. I hated losing just as much as everyone, but this year wasn't about winning for me.

Clearly, cause we got our asses kicked. She gives you that Brittany look that makes your meanness wither. Sorry, you tell her. What was it about?

Acceptance. I know that all the kids in the Glee Club—they fight and they steal each other's boyfriends and girlfriends, and they threaten to quit, like, every other week, but—weird stuff like that happens in families.

Yeah, well, you snort, your stomach turning at the word family—your mother's warning about your father, the night she watched you packing, pricks at you again as you think of the promise you made in New York. This is a club, you remind Brittany. This is not a family.

Well. Brittany stands up, pivots to you, holds you against the locker with her eyes. Family is a place where everyone loves you no matter what, she says, pointedly, and they accept you for who you are.

As she lists the members of Glee Club, imagines their future lives together, you wonder what it would be like to have a family like that. To have faith that other people will help you up, over and over again, even when you do and say all the wrong things.

I love them, she finishes. I love everyone in Glee Club. And I get to spend another year with everyone I love—her eyes flicker over your face—so… I'm good.

What about you and I? You add—silently—are we family? Are you my family? Will you stay, will you still care, even if I fuck up again?

Brittany looks at you—a long, deep look.

I love you, Santana. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone else in this world. All I know about you and I is that because of that, I think anything's possible.

It's the first time since you declared your love for Brittany—right here at these lockers—that she's said it to you. Not back to you—just, to you. Your throat aches. You pull her tight against you, her body that seems to belong against yours.

You're my best friend, you remind her.

Yeah, me too.

But this is still the hallway. And the summer isn't over yet.

So you pull yourself free—pull yourself together—and offer her your pinkie.

When did you get so smart? you ask her, as you walk together to history.

* * *

><p>In the brief space between your house and Brittany's is a shaded little park with a swingset. When you two were younger, before the summer when it all started—when you were suddenly too old for parks and swings, and left them behind for swimming and tanning—you would sometimes linger here for whole afternoons, swallowed up by the rustle of trees and the creaking of the swings and gathering pebbles. By the time you moved here, you were too old for your mother to take you to the park, the way she did when you lived in Cleveland. Brittany was your only company some days; on those afternoons, your house key lay heavy and cold at the bottom of your backpack as you forgot yourself with her.<p>

Brittany drills a hollow in the soft earth below with the tip of her shoe. You watch from your adjacent swing, twisting back and forth so the old chains groan as their joints slide together. Your heart pounds, even though there's nothing to be nervous about. It's just you and Britt—it's always just been you and Britt. Nearly seven years. Even before the summer feeling, before everything that followed, you could never imagine your life without her—with anyone but her, forever.

Britt?

Yeah?

What did you mean, anything's possible?

I mean—I think you can do this.

You feel the dread growing in your belly. Gestating. Summer is here—summer will end.

What if I can't? Will you—still love me?

Your swing stills. You look over—she's holding your chain in place.

Yes, she says. Whatever happens. I will always, always love you.

Then you begin to cry—it's too much; it's too big a gift and you don't know where to put it.

San, she whispers, and her voice is thick too. San, come on.

Britt takes your hand and leads you to a patch of grass shaded by two trees. You settle down together; she pulls your head into her lap, wipes away your tears, and strokes your hair.

How long have you loved me? you ask.

Loved you how?

Loved me—the way I've loved you, since that summer three years ago. Before our first kiss.

You've laid your cards down. Her hand stills in your hair; you panic for a moment until her hand moves to your ribs, down over your waist. You close your eyes.

Since the first day I saw you, she whispers.

Your heart soars. Flutters. Then settles—pounds, merciless as a metronome. You turn face up, fold the hand that strokes you between your own hands.

Kiss me, you tell her.

Here? she asks. In daylight? Where anyone could see?

Yes. Kiss me now.

As Brittany dips her mouth to yours, hovering, like a supplicant bee, you cup her head and rise to meet her. You're not afraid. And suddenly everything disappears: the breeze, the birds, the trees looming overhead, the still-creaking swings you abandoned a little ways down the hill. She—your Brittany, your family, your love—is the only thing that matters.

This, you think—smiling into her lips—this is the beginning of forever.


End file.
